


Batman: The Man Behind The Grin

by RowenaZahnrei



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Altered Mental States, Attraction, Batcave, Charisma, Child Murder, Childhood, Constructed Reality, Control, Delusion, Denial, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Escape, Explosion, Fear, Foster Care, Gadgets, Gangs, Gangsters, Gen, Grin - Freeform, Ideals, Identity Issues, Identity Swap, Impulse Control, Insanity, Mad Scientists, Message, Microchips, Mind Control, Morality, Multiple Choice, Murder, Murderers, Nemesis - Freeform, Nightmare, Opposition, Orphans, Past, Past Violence, Reality, Red Hood Gang, Revenge, Robbery, Sanity, Self-Denial, Stolen Identity, Total Immersion, Tricksters, Virtual Reality, Wealth, artificial reality, false tooth, illusion, knife, laboratory, mob, mob boss, mobster, polarity, power, warped worldviews
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 01:03:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 21,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7597267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowenaZahnrei/pseuds/RowenaZahnrei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Joker is out of Arkham, and in possession of a pair of highly experimental microchips developed by Tetch Labs.  Batman tracks him to a flooded warehouse - where an explosion brings the two foes closer than ever to uncovering the true face of the man behind the grin. </p><p>But are their experiences real, or microchip-induced hallucinations?</p><p>COMPLETE STORY!  Please Review! :D</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Joker, Batman, The Mad Hatter, Harley Quinn, Gordon or any Batman characters. Please don't sue me or steal my story. Thanks!
> 
> NOTE: I've rated this story 'Teen and Up', but if you are uncomfortable with the kind of stuff shown on programs like Law and Order: SVU and in the comics listed below, you might want to skip some of the upcoming chapters.
> 
> This story was primarily inspired by: 
> 
> Batman #85 "Batman—Clown of Crime"  
> Detective Comics #168 "The Man Behind the Red Hood"  
> Batman: The Killing Joke  
> Batman: Going Sane  
> Batman: The Man Who Laughs  
> Batman Black And White Volume 2: Case Study

**"…I wish that for just one time**  
You could stand inside my shoes  
And just for that one moment  
I could be you 

**"Yes, I wish that for just one time**  
You could stand inside my shoes  
You'd know what a drag it is to see you." 

**_~Bob Dylan  
Positively 4th Street _ **

__

Prologue

__

A maniac's laughter ricochets around the dim, cavernous space: a decrepit, decaying warehouse, one of many that line the seedy docklands of Gotham Harbor. Outside the building's shattered windows, lightning flashes. The blinding bolts highlight the rain sheeting down from the curdled nighttime sky, puddling on the stained, concrete floor.

__

Clanging footsteps from above - a catwalk! Two shadows, one long and lean, the other caped and menacing, race across its treacherous length. The slender man is in the lead, his chalk-pale face stretched into a broad, toothy rictus. Nimbly, he climbs over the safety railing and leaps for the support pole nearly two meters away. The caped figure is forced to pause at the railing as his quarry's laughter cuts the air. 

__

"Toodles, Batsy!" he waves as he slides down the pole. "Ha HA hee hee wheee!"

__

Expressionless, the caped man pulls a grappling gun from his belt and fires the customized hook toward the ceiling. It catches an exposed, metal beam and he swings from its attached cable, his cape billowing behind him like the wings of a monstrous bat.

__

The Batman lands first, his boots splashing heavily in the pooled rainwater. 

__

His ghost-faced quarry cackles again and jumps the last few feet to the ground, performing a series of oddly graceful leaps and twirls as he edges for the side entrance, all the way at the other end of the building. 

__

The Batman watches for a moment, disgust etched in every line of his face. But the madcap dance is deceptive; there is method somewhere in this man's madness. The Joker is avoiding the deeper puddles, keeping his polished shoes as dry as possible. Batman crouches low, touching the dark water with his gloved finger and bringing it to his nose.

__

"Gasoline…" he realizes. The entire floor is coated with it and, as the rain pours in, the slick, flammable liquid is rising to the surface.

__

The Batman surges to his feet. 

__

"It's over, Joker," he intones darkly, once more brandishing his grappling gun. "Stop where you are." 

__

The slim man rolls his eyes and giggles, but doesn't slow his dance. The exit is in sight now, his getaway car and waiting henchmen in view. Still, he can't resist hurling a taunt back at his pursuer.

__

"Oh please, Batman! After all these chases, all these games, the best you come up with is a hackneyed line like that? What's next? 'The gig is up?'" He laughs. "Well, whatever floats your boat, right? Don't let me rain on your hit parade! Ha HA ha ha ha haa!"

__

"This isn't a game, Joker," the Batman growls. "It never was. You have one chance. Hand over the Tetch microchips or—"

__

"Or what?" The Joker smirks as he sideswipes another puddle, his long purple coattails flaring out behind him in a demented parody of grace. "You'll harm me? Beat me to a bleeding pulp, then lock me away for years and years and years and years? Sorry, Bats, but that one's been tried too. And we both know you haven't the stomach for anything stronger."

__

The clown's eyes glint with mocking challenge, as hard and cold as chips of jade. 

__

Batman's square jaw clenches and he pulls the trigger of his gun. Quicker than he can blink, the cable wraps around its target, cutting into the Joker's arms as it pins them to his sides. The startled criminal overbalances and falls face-first into a reeking puddle, saturating his tailored suit and staining his spats with rust and tinted gasoline. 

__

The Batman leans over his fallen foe with the smallest of smiles.

__

"Don't tell me you didn't expect that," he says. 

__

But before the Joker can respond, a burly hood in a clown mask hoves into view, followed by six more. Almost simultaneously, a siren wails and flashes at the far end of the warehouse and a small wall of uniformed police come crashing in through the main doors.

__

"No, no, not here. Not now…" the Batman mutters, and the Joker starts to cackle. With a grunt that's more annoyance than exertion, Batman hauls the sopping madman over his shoulder like a sack of soggy rice and fires his grappling gun into the air.

__

The standoff between cops and crooks lasts barely eight seconds. Joker's goons fire first and the cops respond quickly, their bullets sparking dangerously as they collide with decayed pipes and unshielded wiring. As projectiles fly, the grappling gun's metal cord wraps around what appears to be a gas pipe, but as it is forced to take on the weight of the Batman and his prize, the corroded metal begins to bend and crumble, revealing the bundled wires inside... 

__

Lightning flashes, thunder rumbles, and bullets ping, but the Batman continues to rise higher, gambling that the wires will hold until he and the Joker can reach the catwalk. 

__

Bound as he is, and slung unceremoniously over the Batman's cowled shoulder, the Joker cannot see the danger above. He sees only the hail of bullets beneath their dangling feet, and he taunts, "You better not let me fall, Batman! I fully intend to sue if, while in your care, my precious person is dropped, dented or otherwise damaged!"

__

Batman blocks out his foe's mocking tones. The cord has cut completely through the pipe now - they are dangling from only three fat wires that droop more dramatically every moment. It is clear they won't reach the catwalk before the cord slices through them too. There is no choice but to descend.

__

"Wha—what do you think you're doing!" the Joker yelps as they sink closer to the gunfight. "UP! Go up! It's murder down there!"

__

The wires snap in an explosion of sparks, and the cord goes slack. As they fall, the Joker's struggling stops and he erupts into hysterical laughter. 

__

The Batman remains calm. He spreads his cape to deflect the flying bullets as he tucks himself into a roll, absorbing the impact of their fall with the Joker clasped securely in his arms. It is a skillful landing, technically flawless - but for one detail. 

__

As Batman and the Joker crash into the ankle-deep water, the sparking wires fall to ground directly beside them. Carried by the water, the electric current shoots through the foes with shocking violence. Their muscles clench, their hair crackles, and the stolen microchips secreted in the Joker's vest pocket burst to sudden, unexpected life…

__

…mere instants before the floating gasoline and its rising vapor explode in a fireball rush of flame and displaced air.

__

To Be Continued...

__


	2. Chapter 2

_"Hee. Hee hee. Ha ha ha ha ha. HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! Hee hee."_

Commissioner Gordon frowned as he peered through the window into the Batman's hospital room. Even laid up in a stark white hospital bed, his left arm and torso wrapped in gauze and bandages, there was nothing frail about this man. His damaged cape and suit had been draped across a chair but, for some shared, unspoken reason, the hospital staff had left him his mask.

"All the times he's been here, I don't think I've ever heard the Batman laugh," Dr. Moss commented from behind him. "It's really quite eerie."

"I thought you said he was unconscious," Gordon said. 

The balding doctor looked up from the chart he was flipping through. 

"He is," he said. "He's been laughing like this since he was brought in."

Gordon growled. 

"That damned Joker Juice! The fiend must have dosed him with it back at the warehouse. Did you—"

"We administered the antidote for the Joker's neurotoxin several hours ago, but it's had little effect. I sent some of his blood up to the lab for tests, but it'll be some time before there's any news."

Gordon rubbed his mustache in frustration, but nodded his understanding. 

"Any idea how long he'll be out? And the Joker, any word on him?"

"That electric shock these men experienced put quite a strain on their systems. Coupled with the explosion and the resulting burns…" The doctor shrugged. "It could be a while."

"Is that all you can say?" Gordon fumed, his frustration starting to get the better of him. "You doctors are as bad as politicians! Never a straight answer among you!"

The doctor straightened, peering down at Gordon over his thin spectacles. 

"Frankly, Commissioner, it's a miracle these two men are alive at all. As for their healing, that will happen in its own time. Now, if you don't mind, I do have other patients to attend to. This hospital does not revolve around the Batman and his victims, no matter how often they fall at our doorstep."

Gordon scowled at the doctor's departing back, then spun on the uniformed officers he'd brought with him from the precinct.

"Conrad, Johnson, go stand guard over the Joker's room. Mendez, Pearce, you stay here. I want everyone, everyone to be thoroughly searched before they pass through those doors. Doctors, nurses, no exceptions. There'll be no rescue or murder attempts here on my watch, got it?"

"Yes sir, Commissioner," the officers said, and took their places. 

Gordon grunted his satisfaction and headed toward the stairs, only to be sidetracked when he spotted a stocky detective on his way up the corridor.

"O'Hara!" Gordon called. "So, you're back. What can you tell me about those microchips the Joker was after? Any ideas what he wanted them for?"

The detective looked tired. 

"We don't have many leads as of yet, Commish," he admitted. "Them science geeks over at Tetch Labs are keepin' pretty tight lipped about the nature of their projects - takin' their cue from that Jervis character in charge. Kept goin' on about intellectual property an' patent rights like _we_ were the thieves. All we could get outta them was somethin' about…erm…" He pulled out a crumpled notepad and shuffled through its rain-wrinkled pages. "Remote impulse control in rats," he read.

"Impulse control…" Gordon tapped his chin, his brow furrowed in thought.

"Yeah, I think it's somethin' to do with, like, controlin' the rats' impulse to eat," the detective explained. "Sorta like an electronic diet pill or somethin'."

"Impulse control," Gordon repeated, his frown deepening. "I'm getting a bad feeling about this one. Of all times for the Batman to be out of commission! I could really use his input about now."

The detective crossed his beefy arms. 

"Hey, Commish… No offense, but why're you so hung up on that masked vigilante? By all accounts, he's as messed up as those weirdo freaks he hauls in."

Gordon shrugged. 

"Maybe. But, I'll tell you this. No one knows the Joker's mind better than he does. No one. And we'll need that level of understanding if we're to figure out what this lunatic had planned for those microchi—"

A horrible, strangled roar ripped through the antiseptic air of the hospital, followed by the distant tinkling crash of metal impacting with glass. 

Gordon's head snapped up, the officers he'd just sent out already pelting toward him down the tiled corridor.

"Commissioner!" Johnson shouted. "Commissioner, it's the Joker! One minute he was unconscious and the next— He went berserk, sir! Grabbed the chair…shattered the mirror, the window, and…"

"And what, Johnson?" Gordon demanded. "Has the Joker been restrained?"

Johnson swallowed, her dark eyes wide with guilt, anger, and a hint of fear. 

"No, sir. I'm afraid I have to report that the Joker has escaped."

To Be Continued...


	3. Chapter 3

_The nightmare… He had awoken to a nightmare and it was still chasing him. Everywhere he turned, shadows loomed like monstrous bats. The dark figures he passed leered at him with mocking eyes, laughing, always laughing. The laughter vibrated his ears, rattled in his skull, harsh and cruel and hateful. So many faces…!_

_His legs hurt, his lungs were burning. He couldn't run anymore. Diving into an alley, he slammed his back against the wall and slid down, down, down into the sour, reeking darkness. There, with a sobbing cry, he felt the faces take him, carry him away with death-cold hands along a stream of memories that were not his own…_

"Mom! Mom, are you here? Please, Mom… You've gotta answer me…"

The ancient high-rise was condemned, falling apart. Moisture dripped down the peeling walls, mold climbed up and through the exposed asbestos insulation. The floor had rotted in patches, and it was difficult to know where to step. But he kept going, doing his best to avoid the rat droppings, the bat droppings, the human waste and vomit that carpeted the narrow corridor.

There was no electricity, no heat. The moans and sighs and sobs that choked the sour air were his only guide as he climbed the slippery, urine-soaked stairs. And then, there they were. Bodies without souls, ragged and wretched, packed together like slaves in a dungeon of their own making. The smell was worse here, the sounds, the half-mad laughter…

"Mom?"

The meth-heads didn't move, just stared straight up or straight ahead with their empty, bloodshot eyes. He picked his way through, searching the faces. But, in the dark they all looked the same. Male, female, young, old, there was no difference. They were just bodies, huddled bodies, hiding behind lank hair and brown, bleeding grins.

"Mom, please!" he cried, fiercely wiping away the tears he couldn't stop. "I know you're here. You gotta know my voice, Mom. You gotta know who I am!"

"I know who you are. You're that stringbean's brat, ain'tcha?"

A shadow broke away from the wall, bald and looming. The man's face was cloaked in darkness; all he could see were his eyes, and the gleam of his silver tooth when he smiled.

"Where's my Mom," he demanded, struggling not to show his fear. This man carried a knife, he'd seen him use it on rats and strays and customers who tried to trick or fool or double-cross him.

"On an errand, my boy," he said in the smooth, cocky voice of a man who's climbed to the top of his own little world. "She can't expect something for nothing. If she can't pay in cash there are…other uses for her."

He swallowed. 

"When will she be back?"

"I wouldn't wait up." The man smiled his cruel, silver smile. "Go home, boy. This place isn't for you. Yet."

"Bastard..."

"What was that?" the man snarled.

"You're a bastard!" he yelled, too angry to be afraid. "Just you wait till I'm big. I'll pay you back. You'll see!"

"Kid," the man said, "trust me. You ain't gonna live that long."

The knife was in the monster's hand before he could blink and a jolt of real terror surged through him. Acting fast, he grabbed the nearest meth-head and shoved her at the man. 

Then, he ran. He ran down the stairs and out into the cold, sweet-smelling street. He couldn't go home. There was no point without his mom there, and besides, that scumball knew where he lived. So he just ran. Ran past the junkies and the alcoholics, past the homeless schizophrenics lost in strange and frightening realities all their own. And as he ran, he began to laugh. 

He'd told that jerk off and made it out with his life. At that moment, he felt free, like he could do anything, be anything, have anything he wanted. 

And what he wanted was to make that bastard pay. Not for his mother, although that was still part of it. He wanted to make him pay for pulling that knife on him, for making him feel so afraid…

*******

_"Mom... Mother. Father... No!"_

The nightmare… He had awoken to a nightmare and it was still chasing him. He turned and tossed on the starched hospital pillow, his thoughts bursting like fireworks with no coherence, no pattern. All he saw were images, unfamiliar memories he knew were not his own...

An elevated train curves through the nighttime city, a man in the seat across from him holds out his stethoscope, letting him listen to his heartbeat.

_Father…_

But Father was dead. Two gunshots in the street. Two roses on the snow, on the grave where Father and Mother were buried together under the headstone…

_WAYNE_

He sat up with a gasp and reached up to touch his face. A mask, cool and smooth, met his searching fingers, and he stared down at his hands in confusion. Blunt fingers, thick, muscular arms…

And there, on the chair, an armored suit and cape as black as the night.

He practically heard the lightbulb click on in his brain, and he realized he understood. He understood it all.

The laughter bubbled up inside him, uncontainable, uncontrollable. It brought the nurses running, needles in hand, and as they pumped the tranquilizing drugs into his veins his hysterical laughter calmed enough to let him get a few words in between the chuckles.

"It's a dream, it's a dream. Oh ho! It's a dream come true…"

*******

"A nightmare," he grunted, only dimly aware that someone was there, smoothing a warm, damp cloth over his forehead. "All those people, in the dark… That man…"

"It's all right, puddin'."

It was a woman's voice, shrill yet somehow gentle. He felt her fingers stroking his hair, calming, soothing. 

"The big bad Batman can't get you no more. You're with me now, yeah? And I know how to make everythin' all better."

Warm lips on his cheek, the sharp chemical scent of greasepaint and hairspray—

He opened his eyes.

"Gah!" he exclaimed, pushing her away as he shot to his feet. His memory was still hazy, disjointed. But that woman, dressed up like a porcelain doll with her white-painted face, her black lipstick and skintight costume…

"I know you," he muttered, casting his gaze around the room. It was large and cluttered with brightly colored boxes and posters and broken arcade games. Fun House mirrors lined one wall, and he approached them cautiously, not quite trusting his eyes.

"No…"

"It's only a little burn, hun," the woman said, coming up behind him, her fingers brushing the side of his head where the green hair was singed and brittle. "Mommy'll make it better."

"Don't touch me," he said and pulled away from her, stepping closer to the mirrors.

Wide, jade-green eyes stared back at him, slender fingers reached up to touch a long, chalk-pale face, its muscles stretched into a permanent grin.

The sight was so impossible, so repulsive, he had to laugh. A horrified, hysterical laugh that tore from his gut like a sob.

"Mistah J?"

He looked at her face, as distorted as his own in the mirror's wavy glass. 

"Harley," he said slowly. "You're Harley Quinn. And I… I am…"

A cloud of squeaking bats swarmed behind his eyes, blotting out the moon. He saw a cave, a high-tech computer console tucked in among the eerie rock formations. A man's face. 

Alfred…

"You're comin' back to bed," Harley said, taking him by the arm. "Oh, my poor puddin'. That mean ol' Batsy must have walloped you harder than I thought."

He started to go with her, then yanked his arm away. Dashing to a purple trunk, he hefted it open and dug through its contents, pulling out socks, underwear, a dark shirt, dark pants, a broad-brimmed hat, and a long trench coat.

"Get out of here while I change out of this filthy hospital gown," he ordered. 

Harley looked like she was about to protest, but a glare from him sent her scurrying. 

He dressed quickly with his eyes focused on the wall in front of him. He knew where he had to go, who he had to contact. There was only one person he could trust to look past this freakish body and recognize the man trapped inside.

Gathering his resolve, he took a final glance at his warped reflection, then strode from the room. 

Harley was there, crouched between her two hyenas. They stood and snarled when he appeared.

"Shh, babies," Harley said, stroking their bristly heads. "That's your Daddy. You know your Daddy."

Their growls deepened, but they lay back down. Harley stood up and danced over to him. 

"Goin' somewhere?" she asked brightly.

"Out," he grunted. "I want you to stay here, Harley. Don't follow me."

"Oh, but can't I—?"

"No," he said firmly. "Stay here, and don't cause any trouble."

"Sheesh," he heard her say as he strode out the door, his thoughts still muzzy and disconnected. "'Stay here, and don't cause any trouble!' Honestly, babies, sometimes your Daddy can be as bossy as Batman."

To Be Continued…


	4. Chapter 4

Nights in Gotham are long, and dark. Especially when it rains.

Water sluiced off the brim of his hat. It ran down the side of his face in freezing rivulets, soaking his clothes beneath his trenchcoat.

The rain and the darkness made walking treacherous, but he had to walk, had to climb, had to stumble through the gnarled and looming trees to reach the craggy cliffside beneath Wayne Manor.

His long, narrow boots squelched in the mud, slid on the slippery leaves. He held out his arms for balance, scanning the ground for the tracks he knew were there.

The only light shone down from the manor's windows, and not from many of those. From the wood below, Wayne Manor seemed a foreboding place; a hulking castle, heavy with shadows and secrets.

The tracks were shallow, and not very well defined, but they glinted like silver in the slick mud: two parallel lines cutting through the woods, only to stop abruptly a few feet from the sheer cliff face.

To the untrained eye, the tracks wouldn't signify much. Perhaps, a couple of teenagers had parked there for a few moments of privacy, or maybe a maintenance truck had gotten lost on its way to the manor and had to back out.

But, the man in the Joker's suit knew those tracks would lead him straight to the Bat Cave.

"Where's that damn vent..." he muttered, keeping his voice low as he ran his gloved hands over the rough stone. "Ah—!"

His hand slid into a crack in the rock. He brushed away the spiders and their sticky webs, his long fingers feeling for the release lever that would open the doors...

The lever gave way with surprising ease, and the side of the cliff opened, smooth and silent.

He stood for a moment, staring into the yawning blackness ahead. The air in there was still and bitterly cold against his wet skin. It brought with it the familiar stench of bats, guano, and engine exhaust.

He felt his skin stretch and knew he was smiling.

Quickly, he slipped inside, and the doors rolled closed behind him.

To Be Continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Opinions? Reviews are always welcome! :)


	5. Chapter 5

Dim light cast dark shadows up ahead. A deep voice rumbled and echoed down the passages, low and indistinct.

The man in the Joker's suit crept closer, peering over a rough ledge to the complicated control center below.

A man sat there, in front of a panel of monitors, talking into a small bluetooth phone tucked in his ear. This man was tall and thickly muscled with broad shoulders, dark hair, and a very expensive haircut. He spoke in a clear, resonant voice, and gave every indication that he felt perfectly comfortable and confident in his skin.

A powerful sense of displacement ripped though the man in the Joker's suit. He felt disembodied, like a ghost, watching himself from across the room. His memories were a fractured haze, but he knew, he knew that was his body down there, his voice, his phone. This whole place, the Bat Cave, the Batmobile, the remembrances and mementos arranged just so in their glass cases...

This place was him, his core. And, if he was right—

"Now, now, Mr. Tetch— All right, all right, Dr. Tetch. It's no good jumping the gun," he heard the man below him say. "All I said was I may be interested in investing. That's not a promise. Merely an...indication. I will, of course, have to see the facilities for myself before considering anything more concrete. And, naturally, I will expect a demonstration."

_Tetch..._

The name swirled around and through his swimming head, triggering faded, jumbled images.

He remembered, he'd been investigating Tetch Labs for something... Some kind of research, regarding impulse control. There was a sinister potential there, and a rumor that it had caught the Joker's interest. And if the Joker was involved, then...

A wave of memory crashed over him, and he clutched his head in his hands.

_Hammering rain and thunder... The sharp stench of gasoline..._

_The Joker's slender frame hung over his shoulder...so much heavier than he looked... Above him, a pipe was creaking...bending..._

_Freefall came to a jarring end. He glimpsed the Joker's bloodless face beside him, rictus grin twisted into a grimace, saw the sparks spitting and leaping from the madman's pocket..._

Microchips. The Joker had stolen microchips from Tetch Labs. But...why, what for...

_The pain of the electric blast had wrenched through every fiber of his body, searing his muscles, paralyzing his thoughts. He heard laughter somewhere in the darkness, but he couldn't see, couldn't move..._

The man in the Joker's suit gasped and stumbled back against the rough rock. His thoughts felt just as disjointed as before, but now a streak of clarity shot through the chaos.

That was the Joker down below, wearing Bruce Wayne's skin. Somehow, the electric blast had activated the stolen Tetch microchips the madman had stowed in his pocket. The murderous clown now had control over his body, his secrets...and all the clout and coin of Wayne Industries.

And he, the man in the Joker's suit...he was alone, with nothing, trapped in the garbled mind of a freakish maniac.

"No..." he growled, glaring down at the imposter, watching him talk with _his_ voice, smile with _his_ face...

There had to be a way to fix this, to put things back, before the Joker had a chance to put into motion whatever devious plan he was cooking up. With Bruce Wayne's facilities, fortune, and friends behind him, there was no telling the havoc the lunatic could wreak. If he put on the mask and cowl—

An older gentleman strode into the cavernous space, a tray of sandwiches in his hands.

Alfred!

Just the sight of his loyal friend helped him pull his thoughts together. For the first time since opening his eyes in the hospital, he felt sure of himself, and his identity.

"I am Bruce Wayne," he whispered, needing to hear the words spoken aloud.

"Sandwiches, sir," Alfred said, his prim voice echoing slightly. "I had a feeling I would find you here. You've never been one to take the advice of a doctor."

"I'm not staying in bed, Alfred," the imposter said, selecting a sandwich from the neat pile on the silver tray. "I have far too much work to do. Besides, I feel fine."

"May I ask to whom you were speaking just now?"

"That was Jervis Tetch."

"Ah. The microchip man."

"I just set up an appointment to tour his laboratory tomorrow - as Bruce Wayne. I'm going to get to the bottom of this scheme, Alfred, before anyone else gets hurt."

"Then, sir, might I recommend your blue suit? I do think it brings out the color of your eyes, and if the lovely Dr. Steele is going to be there..."

"Playing matchmaker now, are you, Alfred?"

"I wouldn't presume, sir," Alfred said.

The two shared a friendly, amused look.

Alfred left the tray and started back up the stairs to the main house.

The man in the Joker's suit felt that awful displaced sensation again. The man down there was acting so natural. Could he have been wrong?

But then, he heard a low chuckle. It started soft, then began to grow and swell until it filled the entire cavern with a wild, echoing cacophony. Bats squeaked and squealed overhead, adding to the noise until the man in the Joker's suit thought his head would split.

The laughter stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The imposter leaned over the computer console and typed in a string of numbers – a phone number.

Beaming a wild grin that looked more than a little peculiar on Wayne's stern face, the imposter spoke into the phone. Far from Bruce Wayne's pleasant baritone, the voice he now used was higher, rougher, faster; a nasal tenor his observer recognized at once.

"Oh, Mr. Hat, do I have a tale for you! Ooh, hoo!"

A man's voice responded through the speaker in a tense whisper.

"Joker? I told you not to call me here!"

"My dear Hat, you wound me. To the quick! Just for that, I may decline to share my news with you."

"No... All right, but make it fast! If Dr. Steele should come in—"

"That's your problem, Hat, old top. You worry too much. Now me—"

"Can you please get to the point!"

The imposter chuckled darkly.

"I just thought you'd like to know," he said. "The plan's still on."

There was a pause as the implications sank in. Then:

"When?"

"Tomorrow. Meet me: same place, same time. Oh, and Hatty, old chum..."

"What?"

"This time, the masks will come off."

With that cryptic message, the Joker cut the call, leaned back in Wayne's chair, and propped Wayne's feet up on the console.

"Ah, to be rich, now the shopping season is here," he sang in Wayne's voice, and spun the chair around in a full circle. Pressing the intercom, he shouted, "Alfred! I'm going shopping! I'll want a hot bath when I get back - and don't forget the bubbles!"

Laughing to himself, the imposter pulled on Wayne's heavy overcoat and dapper hat, danced jauntily past the Batmoblie, and jumped into Wayne's sleek, black convertible.

"Ooooohhh, I do love the smell of leather," he squeaked happily, slipping the key into the ignition and listening to the engine purr.

High above, Bruce had to clench his teeth to keep from growling.

Closing the convertible's top, the Joker hit the gas and sped down the ramp toward the back exit, shrieks of laughter trailing behind him.

Bruce climbed down from the ledge and took his place at the controls. For a moment, it seemed something was off. Then, he remembered: the Joker was tall and slim, and his fingers were longer than Wayne's. He just needed a moment to adjust his perspective.

It didn't take long. In less than a minute, Bruce was working the controls as if nothing unusual had happened. First, he ran a systems check to make sure the Joker hadn't inserted any dangerous programs. Then, he traced the Joker's last call.

The phone number popped back up on the screen, and beneath it an address.

Tetch Labs.

"So..." he muttered. "This Mr. Hat works for Tetch. I'll have to—"

Something hard, heavy, and blunt slammed down on his head and he felt the room go black. Just before he lost consciousness, he thought he heard Alfred's shaky voice. He remembered the silver sandwich tray...

And then, he was lost to the shadowland of dreams.

To Be Continued...


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: The following contains violent imagery that may not be suitable for all readers. Viewer discretion is advised.

The boy... The boy was running, his pounding heart keeping time with the slap of his worn sneakers on the grimy pavement...

_Bruce groaned and tossed his head from side to side. The dream was so vivid, so real... He was after him. The man with the silver tooth. The man whose curved knife dripped red, red blood. He'd seen it gleaming, dark in the moonlight, like a harlot's painted smile..._

The real kicker was, he'd been having a good day. 

Make that a _great_ day. 

He'd beat the pants off those mobster hoods gambling in the alley behind the mall – beat them at their own crooked game. The winnings had earned him their hate, but bought him a ticket to a matinee comedy double feature – two Laurel and Hardy classics, complete with _Looney Tunes_ shorts! - popcorn and a cola, then three deli sandwiches with garlic pickles on the side and two malted milkshakes with enough money left over to fill his bag with groceries for his mom's dinner. For the first time in months, that gnawing pain in his stomach could take a break. 

To top it all off, his best friend, Jack, had snuck away from his newest foster home. Fifteen 'at risk' kids crammed in a four-bedroom apartment, ranging in age from eight to fourteen, and the stupid old lady didn't even bother to learn their names. Just cashed the checks.

Jack said it was the best joint he'd ever been stuck in.

The boy envied Jack. His folks were gone – dead or walked out, Jack had never said. Jack didn't know the fear the boy knew, the responsibility of looking after an addict mother...

He'd told Jack about the meth-heads, about the stench that leeched from their wasted bodies. About the terrible fee his mother paid for the hellish chemicals that rotted her teeth and smothered her soul...

Jack understood. He was one of the few who did. It was a rare thing, this understanding. No pity, no scorn, no judgment. Jack understood, he accepted, and he didn't care.

The boy admired that.

"You know your problem, kiddo," Jack had said, time and again. "You care. You actually give a flyin' crap. That's what's holdin' you down. You gotta learn what other people do just ain't your problem. Learn that, and you're free."

"Just stop caring. Simple as that."

"Simple as that."

The boy had looked at him, his green eyes wide and vulnerable.

"Do you care about me, Jack?"

Jack had laughed.

"Hell no! If you died tomorrow, you know what I'd do?"

"What?"

"I'd take those runnin' shoes of yours and dump your rancid carcass in the river with the rest of the rot and trash. 'Cause that's all we are, when you get down to it. We're all of us dying from the moment we're born. Can't stop it, so why stress? Might as well just take what you can for yourself while you can use it. You get what I'm sayin'? Good. Now, gimme your jacket. I'm cold."

The boy gave the jacket to him willingly, and the pair had spent the rest of the evening behind the arcade, creaming the pierced and tattooed yuppie teens at poker, blackjack, and craps, then blowing their winnings on the video games inside.

When they finally split up, the moon was high, the wind was bitter, and a light snow had begun to fall. But, Jack's words still lingered in the boy's mind as he walked the long blocks home, then trudged up the stained and stinking stairwell to his apartment.

The battered, gray door hung open when he got there, but that didn't mean much. He was the only one who ever bothered to lock the apartment. Or to find food. Or to swat the cockroaches away from the sink, or clean his mother's sick off the floor...

"Ma," he called, dumping his bag on the wobbly round table. "Hey, Mom, I got you some fruit. An' I got some vegetables and eggs, and a can of that corned beef hash you like. Mom?"

The sour stench of alcohol and stale sweat pervaded the small apartment. Someone had been there, some man. If it wasn't the landlord, collecting his 'rent', it had to be another one of those empty-eyed slobs with those hungry, leering smiles.

The boy wrinkled his nose and pushed through the hanging plastic beads to the dark little closet of a room that held his mom's mattress. The stench in there was heavy and metallic, like nothing he'd ever smelled before...

"Mom?"

_Bruce gasped and cried out in his sleep._

_The boy's mother was dead._

_Not just dead... Jack the Ripper dead. Someone had used a knife on her, unzipped her torso and taken...taken..._

A drug mule. They'd had his mother working as a drug mule.

Maybe she'd planned a double-cross. Maybe she'd swallowed the drugs and planned a get-away. 

It didn't matter now. His mother was dead. The drugs were gone. 

And, the boy knew exactly who'd done it. 

He could almost see him there, moving like a ghost among the blood and shadows. That monster had broken the apartment door, kicked his way into their private haven, then used that awful knife to stab and rip and hack and tear, all the while grinning, grinning with that silver tooth glinting like a mirror in the sun...

When the boy came to himself, he was running, running down the stairs, slipping on the black ice by the building's back entrance. He slammed into the dumpster and something came loose, landing on the cracked pavement beside him.

Cards. A box of playing cards. And, on the front, the Joker's garishly painted face was smeared with something sticky.

Blood?

Moving carefully, the boy climbed onto a wooden crate and peered inside the gaping dumpster. A light layer of snow covered the melange inside, keeping the worst of the stink at bay.

But, the shape beneath the snow was unmistakable. It was a boy, about his age.

A boy wearing _his_ jacket.

"Jack..."

So, that drug-lord hadn't been satisfied just killing his mother. He'd tried to get rid of him too.

But, he'd missed. He'd gotten the right jacket, but the wrong boy. He must have grabbed Jack as he left the arcade, driven the body here in his car... That should have been _him_ sprawled in that dumpster, neck broken, face and clothes bloodied and torn. Not Jack.

Not Jack...

And now, he was running again, running through the dark, slippery streets, too frightened - too _angry_ to shiver.

The boy sucked in breath after harsh, rasping breath, fighting to regroup, to brace himself for the fight to come. He needed somewhere to lay low, to hide out, to plan his revenge on the man with the silver tooth.

His mother had always hated shelters. He held no illusions about his origins. He knew about the attack in the night, knew why she spat at the do-gooder hypocrites with their lying eyes and empty smiles. But right now, braving a shelter seemed a better option than waiting for that drug-lord to realize his mistake...

Or, maybe not. There might be another option, if he could just remember where...

"Take what you can while you can use it, right Jack?" he said, and squeezed the blood-stained box of cards in his hand.

A hopped turnstile and four stops later, a door opened and a woman clinging to the tail end of middle-age peered through the crack.

"Which one are you, then?" she rasped.

"Jack," the boy said, mimicking his friend's cocky stance as he strode into the apartment. "Jack Napier. Check your roster if you don't remember."

"Right," the old woman said gruffly. "The comedian."

"Say, old lady," the boy called, catching her before she could stump back down the hall. "You got anything to eat in this house?"

"You know the rules," she grunted. "You miss supper, you get nothin' 'till breakfast. An' you're to keep your voice down after lights out. That hollerin's enough to wake the dead."

"As you please," the boy said, and started to laugh...a low, strange chuckle that grew increasingly frantic until he couldn't stop, couldn't breathe... It was either laugh or scream and, after all he'd seen, hysteria was getting the better of him...

_Jack... Hey, Jack...what would you do?_

The old woman grunted, threw up her arms and stumped back to bed.

The boy laughed until he was sick in the sink, then sank to the floor and laughed some more.

That silver-toothed creep thought he'd sent a message, but the joke was on him. Now, it was up to _Jack_ to deliver the punch line. And what a punch line it would be! Hee hee hee!

To Be Continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time: The Mad Hatter makes an appearance and a scheme takes shape. Stay Tuned! :)


	7. Chapter 7

Cold rain pelted down from the overcast sky. The man under Bruce Wayne's hat scowled up at the clouds from the back of Wayne's somber black limo.

"Doesn't the sun ever shine in Gotham?" he said.

"Only in the winter, sir," Alfred quipped from the driver's seat. "But then, we have the snow."

The man in the back chuffed a short laugh.

"Why Alfred, you surprise me. I didn't know you had a sense of humor."

Alfred glanced at him in the rear view mirror, his expression creased with concern.

"Are you sure you want to go through with this meeting, Master Bruce?" he said. "After the Joker's break-in last night—"

"A break-in you handled with your usual aplomb. Hitting that clown over the head with a serving tray – classic!"

"Perhaps, sir," Alfred said. "But the fact remains, the Joker did slip away before you returned, despite all my efforts to hold him. To tell the truth, I don't think he was truly conscious of where he was. He seemed most out of sorts, sir, babbling quite incoherently. Something about a boy. And a man with a silver tooth. Does that mean anything to you?"

"Not much."

"No," Alfred said, and sighed. "I suppose we shall never fully understand the demons that drive that nefarious clown."

"I wouldn't worry, Alfred," his passenger said. "I'm sure that joker will turn up again before long."

"Actually, Master Bruce, that is precisely what does worry me."

A buzz of the intercom and a short exchange later, the limo squeezed its way through the security gate and up the curving driveway to the entrance of Tech Labs – a medium-sized industrial complex built into what had once been a chemical plant specializing in developing fabric dyes. The crumbling brick, steel and concrete buildings had been closed down years before after being cited for multiple environmental infractions. Now, its 'clean', updated reconstruction was part of Gotham's ten-year rejuvenation plan funded, in part, by Wayne Enterprises.

A glass door slid open and two people scurried out into the rain to meet the car. In the lead strode a striking woman with blue eyes and long, sandy blonde hair. She wore a lavender business suit with a knee-length skirt and practical, rubber-soled shoes. Behind her slunk a slight, skimpy man with a shock of hair like a windblown haystack. His suit was blue, and it hung on his frame like an oversized bag, as if trying to hide the fact that his head was far too large for his shoulders. Slumped under his umbrella, his hooded eyes kept shooting nervous glances at his antique pocket watch.

"Mr. Wayne!" the woman greeted, holding out her umbrella to shield the passenger as he climbed out of the car. "We're so happy you could make it, and in this awful weather. I know we've talked over the phone, but I'm Alice Steele, and this is Jervis Tetch."

"A pleasure," the man said, with Wayne's reserved smile. 

The woman blushed, and his smile widened.

"And Dr. Tetch," he said, holding out his big, blunt hand. "You seem a bit fidgety. Were you expecting someone else?"

"Huh...what? Uh, no," the man said in a soft voice, stuffing his watch in his baggy pocket before giving Wayne's hand a quick shake. "No, I just... I mean..."

"Jervis, we shouldn't keep Mr. Wayne out in the rain like this," said Dr. Steele. "Please, sir, if you'll step this way."

"Lead on," he said, following her through the sliding door. "But, please, you don't have to be so formal. Why don't you call me Bruce? Then I can call you Alice."

"All right...Bruce."

The woman giggled, then blushed and quickly looked away.

"Oh, Mr. Wayne - I mean, Bruce... I'm so sorry," she stammered, struggling to close her umbrella "Oh, you must think I'm—"

"Never apologize for a little laughter," he said, taking the umbrella and closing it in one swift, graceful motion. He twirled it around, then handed it back to her. "I've found that too many people nowadays fall into the bad habit of taking themselves too seriously. Isn't that right, Tetchy, old top?"

Dr. Tetch looked up from his pocket watch, but his irritated expression shifted when he caught the look in the man's eyes. The man winked at him, and Tetch swallowed hard, stuffing the watch back in his pocket.

"I-I'm not Tetchy—"

"You sound rather _tetchy_ to me," the man quipped.

"No, I'm not," he said, mostly to save face in front of Dr. Steele. "It's Dr. Tetch. I'd appreciate it if you'd please address me as Dr. Tetch."

"Case in point, my dear," the man said, and offered Dr. Steele his arm. "A _chap_ eau with no sense of humor." 

She hesitated a moment, then smiled and took it willingly, leading him through a long, twisting maze of tiled corridors. 

Tetch trailed after them, glaring at the man with an uncomfortable sort of amazement.

"So, microchips," their guest said as they walked. "How delightfully technical. However, Wayne Enterprises does have a pretty expensive R&D department of its own to keep up. Can you give me five good reasons why I should invest my hard-earned cash in your," he smiled down at her, "charming company."

Dr. Steele blushed again, but quickly regained control of herself.

"Well, Bruce, I believe that when you see what we've been working on here, you'll have more than merely five reasons," she said. "The impulse control experiments we've publicized so far are really just the beginning of a much grander project. You see, we believe that electronic entertainment, like movies and video games, should enhance, not hinder, the modern, healthy lifestyle. It's our aim to create virtual gaming forums where kids and grown-ups alike can exercise their bodies as well as their minds, learn healthy eating habits, and compete, engage, and socialize with friends from around the world. But, while I run the day-to-day aspects of this project, Jervis is the real brains behind it all. He's the one who should explain."

"Thank you, Alice," Tetch said.

They stopped in front of a long, glass window overlooking an extensive laboratory. Complicated machines and busy lab tables filled the cavernous space, and everywhere, technicians in white clean suits bustled around, checking and tinkering and maintaining.

"Well, as you can see, this here is the heart of our little operation," Tetch said, speaking to their guest, but keeping his eyes fixed on Dr. Steele. "The idea behind our work is to give our customers the ultimate gaming experience. With our microchips, we can stream data directly into a client's mind, creating a virtual reality unparalleled in its realism. And, when the game is over, the gamer is eased gently back into the real world, just as simply as if he'd turned off his television set. Forget 3D. Forget holograms. These chips will revolutionize movies, television, games - even books, as users will get to live the adventures of their favorite storytime heroes, all from the safety of their own comfy armchairs."

The man in Bruce Wayne's business suit paid close attention – not to the spiel, but to Tetch himself. And, when the tour was over, he made a point of publicly asking Dr. Steele out for dinner and a night on the town - an invitation she readily accepted before heading back to her office to tie up a few loose ends before the workday ended.

Once she had left them, Tetch slammed the conference room door and stalked over to her 'date'.

"I thought you already had a girl," he snarled at the taller man. "Why must you put the moves on mine!"

"Funny," the man said, checking his recently manicured nails. "She didn't act like she was 'your' girl."

Tetch fumed, too furious to speak. 

The man in Bruce Wayne's suit shot him a wicked smile.

"If you feel so strongly about it, why not just implant one of your patented little microchips in her head? Make her forget all about me."

"I...I couldn't do that," Tetch said. "Not to Alice. She...she'd become—"

"That's right, Hatty," the man said. "Just another unthinking pawn in our little game."

Tetch snarled again.

"No. Not her. She stays out of this."

The man laughed; a cruel, frightening sound.

"What do you want, Joker?" Tetch snapped. "I already sold you two of my finest creations – and look what you've done with them! Imprinted your demented thought patterns on Gotham's most expendable playboy? This wasn't the plan we talked about!"

"No, it's much better," the Joker said with a grin. "Don't you see? I know these chips of yours from the inside, now. I know what they can do. And, with the might of Wayne's Enterprise at my back, my little joke on this city will pay off better than I ever could have imagined. Because, you see, I know Wayne's secrets. And Wayne, in turn, knows Batman's."

"Batman?" Tetch said. "What's that masked teacake got to do with any of this?"

"Why, his pushy presence is vital to my scheme! Can you picture it, Mr. Hat?" he exclaimed. "The citizens of Gotham, let loose from their inhibitions...just in time for summer! We'll tear the mask off this city - reveal its true, rotten core - just as I, as Wayne, publicly tear the mask off the Batman. Once Gotham's bleating sheeple see the mug he's been hiding, I predict a riot. There'll be no one left for them to turn to. No one to save them from themselves. It'll be the greatest punchline since, oh, I don't know when! We'll top all the greats with this one!"

"And then?" Tetch demanded.

"And then," the Joker said, "do whatever you want. I don't want their minds. I don't even want their money. I'm just here to send a message. The kind that'll blow the lid off this town for good!"

As the Joker erupted into laughter, Tetch's expression turned thoughtful. If the Joker's plan worked, Gotham could be left shattered. Desperate. They would turn to him, to the imaginary worlds he could offer, for an escape...

"Yes," he said, starting to chuckle himself. "Yes, I see. I could sell each citizen of Gotham his own private Wonderland! And Alice... My dear Alice. At last, she'll understand what's in my heart. She'll join me willingly - or, I'll see her crawl to me on her knees! Finally, finally, the Mad Hatter will get the respect he so rightfully deserves... _Ha ha ha ha HEE HEE ho ho ho!_ "

The sharp crash of shattering glass turned the wicked laughter into startled gulps and gasps. A dark form swung through the window and landed with a roll on the long, polished conference table.

Tetch dove for the coat closet, but the Joker stayed put, the cold, gleeful grin that appeared so strange on Wayne's stern face quickly morphing into a grimace of startled apprehension that looked surprisingly genuine.

"B-batman?" he said in Wayne's deep voice, all innocent confusion. "But, what are you doing here? Is something wrong?"

"I'll say something is wrong," the caped intruder growled, grabbing 'Wayne' by the vest and pulling him so close, he could see streaks in the flesh-colored make-up coloring the masked man's chin. "Where's Mr. Hat?"

To Be Continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think so far? Reviews Welcome! :)


	8. Chapter 8

'Wayne' ran his blunt finger over his assailant's lean jaw, revealing a stripe of chalky white flesh. He wiped the skin-colored makeup on the man's caped shoulder and smiled a wicked smile.

"Poor Bats," he said. "Feeling a little pale?"

His assailant pulled him closer, snarling with yellowed teeth.

Wayne turned his head away.

"Eew, yuch," he said. "I always meant to try those whitening strips, but it's tough keeping up with dental care when those Arkham drones won't let you have a toothbrush. Oh well. Looks like it's _your_ problem now! _Ha HA!_ "

"Enough!" the Batman growled. "Tell me where to find Mr. Hat, or I'll—"

"You'll what? Smash your own jaw?" Wayne laughed. "I don't think so, Batsy. Face it. There's nothing you can do to me. No threats that will stick. In fact—"

A knock at the door, and the masked man was gone. Vanished, like a ghost, or a sudden gust of wind.

The man in Wayne's suit straightened his wrinkled vest and called out, "Who's there?"

"It's me, Alice," the woman said, opening the door and stepping into the room. "I heard a crash from down the hallway and – oh! The window!"

"Yes," Wayne said, shooting the broken glass a petulant look, as if blaming the window for its broken state. "We had a little problem with a rogue bat. How it got in, I'll never know, but I'm sure Wayne's Enterprise will be happy to pay for the damage. Ah, Tetchy, old top!" he cried, draping a companionable arm around the rattled scientist as he sidled toward the table. "Come out of the closet at last, have you?"

The Hatter's eyes spat pure hate at the larger man, but the Joker's friendly facade never cracked as he transferred his cordial smile to Alice. 

Alice blushed.

"Well, um, thank you, Bruce," she said. "And I do apologize for this. I'll call animal control right away, and—"

"That won't be necessary, my dear," he said. "That bat must be well on its way to his belfry by now. And, I believe, we have a dinner date scheduled...?"

"Oh, but I still have another half-hour before—"

"What's half an hour, more or less? Tetchy can hold down the fort, isn't that right, old hat?"

The Mad Hatter gnashed his teeth so hard it was a wonder they didn't break. 

"Actually, I wanted to talk with you—"

"Fantastic! Have your people call my people. Dr. Steele, I forgot to ask. Do you prefer Japanese or Italian?"

Alice giggled happily and took the Joker's hand, leaving Dr. Tetch alone in the wrecked conference room.

Jervis listened until he could no longer hear the echo of their voices in the hall, then strode forward and flipped the conference table over, roaring in fury.

"Double-dealing, clown-faced bastard!" he cried. "Consider our partnership dissolved!"

*******

Harley Quinn touched up her black lipstick and winked at her reflection.

"Lookin' good, Harley-girl," she said, and pranced out the door to the main room of the hideout.

Two burly henchmen sat on the battered sofa, munching pizza and staring at the beat-up old TV. Harley didn't know their real names, but the Joker liked to call them 'Rocco' and 'Henshaw', after two side-kick characters from _The Phil Silvers Show_. 

The white-faced henchgirl hopped onto the sofa's overstuffed arm and snatched a steaming slice from the box before Rocco could reach it.

"Ha!" she crowed, and stuffed the melty cheese in her mouth. "So, whatchoo guys watchin'?" she mumbled with her mouth full.

" _Halloween_ marathon," Rocco said, shooting her a dirty look as he settled for a smaller slice with fewer toppings.

Henshaw laughed and nudged his companion.

"Should be right up her alley, eh Roc?" he said, and smiled a leering smile.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Harley demanded.

Rocco laughed.

"Can't you just see it, Hench?" he teased. "Harley and Michael Myers? That bone-white face? Just her type!"

"And such a long knife!" Henshaw added, and doubled over with guffaws.

Harley rolled her eyes.

"Jerks," she said. "You two cannot be comparin' that costumed freak to my puddin'. Even forgettin' for the moment that this mask-wearin' mute's a fictional creation, Michael Myers is a child! My Mr. J's all man."

"What are you talkin' about, a child?" Rocco scoffed. "The dude's, like, seven feet, easy."

"You poor, ignorant creeps," Harley said from her contorted crouch on the sofa's arm. "I may be a certified loon, but before they stamped that piece of paper, I managed to earn a few others. One of those being a degree in _criminal psychology!_ An' it doesn't take a qualified shrink to see what was obvious from the very first movie in that endless franchise."

"What's that?" Henshaw asked.

"This Michael Myers guy never grew up!" she cried. "Sure, his body aged, but in his head he's always the same enraged little boy who slashed up his sister when she didn't take him trick-or-treating, or whatever. Now, my Mr. J," Harley said, a dreamy fog intensifying the madness in her eyes. "That's what I call a fully realized personality. Deep and layered with so many twisty turns he can always keep me guessin'. When my man comes to rescue me, he knows just who he is, an' where he's goin'."

"Yeah, but he _don't_ go rescue you, do he," Rocco snarked. "You always gotta break _yourself_ outta that nuthatch. Then, _you_ go find _him!_ "

"That's beside the point!" Harley shrilled. " _I_ know _he_ knows we're better together, so you two lunkheads can just take a flyin' leap offa—"

The door to the hideout slammed open, and Harley jumped to her feet with a delighted squeal.

"PUDDIN'!"

Her enthusiasm quickly turned to confusion, though, when her 'puddin'' stumbled into the light.

" _Eeep!_ Mistah J!" she cried, her hands flying to her mouth. "Wait...what are you doin' dressed up like the Bat-brain?"

The masked man lifted his head, reaching out a hand as if he wanted to speak. 

Instead, he collapsed, unconscious, on the floor. 

Harley shrieked and dashed to his side.

"Now, that fall just then," Henshaw commented through a mouthful of pizza. "That was very Michael Myers."

"Didn't Myers collapse like that in _Halloween 5_?" Rocco asked, licking grease off his thick fingers. "Or was it Four? Or maybe one of them remake things?"

"Shut-up!" Harley snapped. "Can't you two lugnuts see? My puddin's been hurt! Pry your wide loads off that couch and help me get him to the bed!"

To Be Continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, that's it for my 'pre-written' chapters. Next Time: Another flashback...or are they dreams? Nightmares? Hallucinations? Stay tuned for a brand new chapter, coming soon! :)
> 
> Your comments and opinions are always welcome! Please review! :)
> 
> P.S. I LOVE _The Phil Silvers Show_ (and comics), and I love that the Joker had henchmen called Rocco and Henshaw in the Animated Series, just like MSG Ernest G. Bilko. I think the Joker's Roc and Hensh might have blown up somewhere during the series...not sure when he got those Three Stooges goons...but I just had to use them in this story. Sgt. Bilko rules! :) As for the _Halloween_ references, there was a marathon playing on TV while I was scribbling out the first draft of this chapter, so it was on my mind... :)


	9. Chapter 9

_The dream was back... The dream, and the boy…_

_The boy was running, still running, but now he had a direction…a goal… And, he was growing. Growing taller, stronger, faster._

_Almost fast enough…_

Life with the old woman and her overcrowded house of government checks was everything Jack had promised, and more. The boy had always wondered what kids did in school, and it didn't take him long to learn the game. Like everything else in life, he found school was a place where a kid like Jack could take what he wanted and turn it to his advantage. Chemistry, biology, history, even literature and art held shining gems of insight into how things really worked. Hearts and minds, war and politics, ambition and greed... Show a little interest, and an attention-starved teacher could go off on tangents the boy could barely believe. Stories of murder...lists of poisons...explosive chemical reactions...

And the stupid saps never had a clue he wasn't in it for the grades.

Sure, straight As and Bs weren't too bad a turnout for a kid who'd picked up his basic reading and mathematics skills hustling card games on the streets. He learned quickly how top scores and a winning smile could encourage even the most jaded teachers to open up to him, and help keep the vice principal off his back about attendance. For a while, there was even some talk about college scholarships.

But, the boy never kid himself about having any future in academia, or some stifling, cubicle-studded workplace after that. He put up with the overcrowded classrooms and grade-D cafeteria lunch meat for one reason, and one reason only.

It give Jack Napier the time and ammunition he needed to plan his perfect revenge...

This burning need fueled his nightmares and stoked his inner rage; charging the boy's mind with recurring images that never seemed to stop.

_His friend's face beneath the snow…his flesh cold and stiff, like blue-grey ice…_

_The man with the silver tooth, grinning in the shadows of his mother's bedroom, his sharp knife flashing like moonlight on choppy waves…dripping blood as black as pitch…_

_Blood that stained Jack's deck of cards…smeared the Joker's laughing face…_

That drug-peddling bastard thought he could get away with anything. He thought he was safe, because anyone with a grudge was too dependent or too scared of his mobster backers to fight.

_Well, Jack wasn't afraid. How could he be?_

_Dead men had nothing to lose..._

"You Jack Napier?" the man in the high-priced fedora called out from a big, black town car.

The lanky teenager leaned against the chipped brick wall of the corner bodega, his green eyes wary as he reached for the switchblade in his pocket.

"Who wants to know?"

"We've seen your work, kid," the man said. "Some joke, the way you sliced up that Falcone stooge when the jerk-face wouldn't cough up his poker debt. Cut off his nose and gashed his cheeks like some Halloween Jack-o'-Lantern. Ain't that right, Jack."

Jack smirked.

"I'd call that more of a visual pun than an actual joke," he said coolly. "But, I'll take any laugh I can get."

The man grunted.

"It's got folks talkin', kid. All sorts 'a folks. You know, some peachfuzz pipsqueak thinkin' he can get away with carvin' his signature right into a Falcone mug?"

"You're one of Sal Valestra's grunts," the teen observed, cagily keeping the pile of trash at the edge of the sidewalk between himself and the car as he edged a little nearer. "Bronski. Buzz Bronski. Why are you after Jack? I thought you losers hated the Falcone gang."

"Kid's got a mouth," Bronski said to the driver, and smiled. "An' it's clear enough he's got guts. But, smarts...I'm not so sure just yet. What's a skinny brat like you doin' scrappin' around those penny-ante poker parlors at night, anyway?"

"Gotta eat," the teen told him. "Why, you offerin' somethin' better?"

"Maybe, kid," the man said. "Maybe. Moxie like yours could be of service. Long as it can be trusted to serve the right side."

"That a threat?" Jack challenged.

"Depends on how you take it," Bronski said. "If you're sharp, like that knife in your jacket there, it might sound like an invitation."

The teen smirked, and loosened his grip on the knife's handle, his heart starting to beat a little faster.

Not with fear, but with anticipation.

He'd been baiting Falcone's goons with a purpose, ever since he learned Falcone was the mob boss behind the man with the silver tooth. Until now, these low-stakes scuffles with some nut-job street kid had been shrugged off by the serious players.

But, if Falcone's rivals had begun to take notice...

Perhaps the time for Jack's revenge was closer than he'd thought.

"Come to the Luna Restaurant on White Plains Road. Tonight. Eight sharp," Bronski said. "There's someone there wants to meet you."

"And if I don't?" Jack said, raising his chin.

Bronski snorted and raised the shaded window, but Jack could hear both him and the driver laughing as the car sped off.

The lanky teen stepped out from behind the trash pile, his cold green eyes holding a broad smile he knew better than to let spill over onto his face.

Jack used to tell him, and experience had proved it true: life was a lot like poker. If he played this hand right, he'd soon have backers just as strong, and just as deadly, as those behind the man who had destroyed his world. A competing mob syndicate that looked out for its own…

...while providing a convenient hierarchical ladder a motivated kid like Jack could easily learn to climb.

"Aim for the top, pally," he laughed to himself. "'Cause that silver-toothed creep can't be put down by just some nobody. Before Jack serves up his punchline, that cocky bastard has to know who won this game. Ha ha! Watch out, Gotham! Jack Napier is finally on his way!"

To Be Continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References Include - Batman: Mask of the Phantasm; Beware the Creeper; Batman: Year One; Batman: The Long Halloween; Batman Begins; and the restaurant in the movie "The Godfather."
> 
> Please review! :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Everyone! Sorry I've been so long with the updates, I have so many projects going on at once - one of which is a project to develop
> 
> FREE AUDIOBOOK
> 
> versions of my stories for you with real voice actors (and me!) reading the narration and playing the roles. And, this story - Batman: The Man Behind the Grin - was picked to be first for the audiobook treatment! :D
> 
> The idea is to help make my stories more accessible to readers with physical or learning disabilities (Data and Nightcrawler helped me, and it would be so great if my stories could help others too!), and to make them more versatile for readers who want to listen in their car, on the bus, while exercising, etc. So, if you're interested in this project and would like to know how to receive a free, downloadable audiobook version of this story, please check out my profile for updates and stay tuned to this story for more information, coming soon! In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this new chapter while I scramble to get this story's last chapters finished and ready for recording! :D

_Golden light from the restaurant's windows made the pavement puddles seem to glow._

_Across the street, a pale, slender figure crouched in the shadow of a tattered awning, jade-green eyes fixed on the restaurant's broad picture windows…and the couple dining there, in full view…_

_The woman, he recognized as a leading scientist from Tetch Labs._

_Alice… Dr. Alice Steele._

_She gazed at the man across from her with admiring eyes, staring around and around the bustling restaurant as if struggling to convince herself that it was real…that he was real..._

_Wayne…but not Wayne…_

_A clown in the guise of Gotham's uncrowned prince…_

_The man in Wayne's best suit ruled the room without standing, exuding energy and laughter in a way Bruce knew he never could. Seeing that man smiling so openly, shaking hands and posing for selfies with tourists and Gothamites alike, playing on his face…his name…_

_When he spoke, he moved his hands with lively flamboyance, leaving his server and sommelier in stitches. Everyone who passed his table left smiling…_

_And Alice, she drank it all in, bashfully basking in the glow of his attention._

_How did he do it? How could this imposter, this monster in Wayne's clothing command a room so easily? And no one seemed to question it, to question him…_

_A sharp wind made the slender man shiver, slapping his face with rain. For that moment, rich smells from the restaurant overwhelmed the city stench of car exhaust and festering garbage, the wind carrying the scents of flame broiled steak and fried potatoes, herbed fish and baked pasta along with the chilling rain…_

_A dizzy wave washed over the man huddled in the Joker's coat and he clenched his jaw, willing the gnawing ache in his gut to fade. He remembered vaguely, back at Joker's hideout... Quinn had tried to feed him cold pizza, but he had pushed past her and through the door, racing back into the stormy night..._

Jack was used to hunger. The great motivator, he'd heard it called.

"No society, no matter how great, is ever more than three days away from anarchy," Falcone used to say at meals, when the big bosses of Gotham would meet openly at the Luna Restaurant to discuss the business of the streets. "Deprive a man of food and drink, of the means to earn his bread, for just three straight days and what do you get? On the first day, maybe he can rationalize. By the second day, he'll search for compromise. But, by the third day… Watch out," he'd say, laughing as he pretended to pull out a gun. "Ain't nothin' more dangerous than a hungry predator. An' me an' my boys…we've been starvin' for years…"

_The slender man shook his head to clear it, to keep himself in the present. The Luna Restaurant was clean now, the mobsters who used to roost there either long dead or serving out what was left of their lives in state and federal insititutions. Prying Gotham loose from the crime syndicate's parasitic tendrils had been one of the Batman's first, and greatest, crime fighting achievements._

_But there were always more. Like Hercules striking at the Hydra, he'd found that removing one crime head allowed for two more to sprout up…each crueler and hungrier than before…_

Napier's rise through the Valestra mob had been steady, but slow. Much slower than he'd first anticipated.

Six years it had taken to climb from lookout to Valestra's personal driver. The position marked him as a key man in the organization: the boss's top bodyguard and go-to assassin.

Yet, it wasn't enough. Sure, he'd learned a lot; grown from a scrappy teen to an imposing adult; overtaken both Buzz Bronski and Chuckie Sol in the boss's confidence... For the first time in his life, he had good pay, good clothes, good food... He'd nestled himself in the ear of power, and he liked it.

But, the man with the silver tooth still prodded at his nightmares. And those nightmares continued to feed Jack's ambitions…his dreams of the perfect revenge.

Unfortunately for Jack, time had not held still for that drug dealing creep. Over the years, he'd come to hold real power in the Falcone gang, moving on from the slums and back alleys of Jack's childhood to the sky-scraping penthouse parties of the rich and indolent. Wall Street rats and trust fund brats loaded up on greed and excess, all too eager to trade their connections, their real estate holdings, and their sterling lines of credit to money-laundering mobsters who knew just how to source and feed their habits…

High-ranking scum like that couldn't be put down by some skinny chauffeur, no matter his reputation with a knife. For his punchline to play now, in this adult arena of mob sharks and hitmen, Jack needed to make his approach from above, with all the force and power of a boss. A boss bigger than Valestra could ever hope to be.

A boss on par with Falcone himself, just itching to snatch the spotlight, and the rug, out from under his whole smug, self-satisfied organization.

This joke had grown beyond one man, one knife, and so had the scope of Jack's revenge. Gotham's entire mobworld syndicate was in his sights now. And the kicker was, if he pulled his scheme off right, when Jack's punchline finally came, not one of Gotham's mob boss bastards would be able to avoid the pratfall!

To Be Continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time: The Mad Hatter Returns! Stay Tuned! :)
> 
> References Include - Batman Begins; Batman: Mask of the Phantasm; The Godfather; Hercules' Second Labor: The Lernean Hydra (myth); Red Dwarf: Marooned.
> 
> Please Review! :D


	11. Chapter 11

The night guard at the Gotham Police Department's main evidence room leaned back in his chair and propped his boots up on the check-in desk, the latest issue of Detective Comics secretively tucked into the police manual on his lap.

"Hey, Baxter," his rookie desk partner, Shelby, called from the shelves and shelves of evidence bags and boxes behind him.

Baxter snapped his book closed and sat up.

"Yeah, Shelby?" he called back. "What's up?"

"When the hospital dropped off the Joker's clothes, was the bladder of neurotoxin bagged separately, or is it still attached to that gag flower thing he wears?"

"It's still with the flower. Hospital staff didn't want to touch it," Baxter told her. "Why?"

"Lab called," Shelby said, coming up to the front desk with the box of the Joker's singed, gasoline-stained, plastic sealed clothing in her arms. "They're sending someone down to collect the stuff for testing. But, I can't seem to find it in this box."

"Yeah, that's right - day shift left a note," Baxter said, flipping through at least a decade's worth of wrinkled memos thumb-tacked to a post board on the cinder block wall. "Right here. The Commissioner wanted any liquids found among the Joker's possessions stored separately. Here, I'll show you."

He got up and led the way toward a row of safes and lockers at the back of the cavernous space.

"We really need a better system down here," Shelby muttered, shooting Baxter's cluttered post board a dark look over her shoulder.

As soon as the two officers had gone, a trio of sleek white rats skittered across the desk. Each rat wore a silver band around its head with a white card, about the size of a miniature playing card, tucked into it like a feather.

These rats worked like a trained team: one keeping watch while the other two climbed into the box, burrowing through the sealed clothing bags until they came upon the Joker's purple topcoat.

Within seconds, they had nibbled through the sealed plastic bag, dug their way into the coat's badly charred inner pocket, and emerged from the box to join up with their lookout and squeeze their way through the security gate. Another tight squeeze though a ventilation shaft, and the rats emerged outside the police station in a dark and dripping alley.

Keeping close to the wall, the three rats scampered away in single file, disappearing into the rainy night…

*******

Jervis Tetch stalked through the sliding door of the airlock-like anteroom that separated the darkened lab from the adjoining clean room.

Motion activated ceiling lights flickered to life above him, revealing a row of five lab techs, three men and two women, standing as still and straight as display mannequins. Their eyes seemed blank and unfocused, and silver bands circled their heads.

Tetch reached into the pocket of his green overcoat and pulled out what, at first glance, looked like a small stack of playing cards. But, when he held the cards up one at a time, the light revealed fine, complex webs of circuity within.

"Whatever made me think I needed the assistance of that traitorous clown to change the way things are?" he muttered bitterly, standing on the tiptoes of his old fashioned boots so he could reach high enough to place a card in the headband of each frozen lab tech. "As the Duchess said to Alice, 'If everybody minded their own business, the world would go around a great deal faster than it does.'"

He sighed then, and hung his oversized head.

"But, where would be the advantage in that?" he said, heading over to the lab's primary computer terminal. "This topsy-turvy world of inverted values places empty celebrity over education. Wealth over ability! If things were as they should be, Alice would realize that psychopath in playboy's clothing could never care for her. She'd understand… All the wealth in the world could never buy her what I can give. For her, I'd make this city a wonderland, where imagination - not money - is the currency that determines our reality! And, as for that double-dealing Joker…"

A trio of white rats scurried up onto the terminal's control pad and bowed low.

Tetch laughed and clapped in delight.

"Twinkle, twinkle, little rat," he sang. "How I wonder what you're at! Well? Were they there? Did you bring them?"

Two of the lab rats opened their mouths and spat out the microchips they'd retrieved from the Joker's topcoat. Tetch examined them quickly, then stuffed them in his own jacket pocket before removing the rats' headbands and returning them to their cages.

"You've earned your treacle tonight, my little friends," he said happily, and took a huge pocket watch from his waistcoat.

"But, Time won't stand beating. Must get a move on if we're to show that Joker what these chips can really do. Tonight, we send a message. To him, and to all of Gotham! The Mad Hatter is not to be trifled with!"

Tucking his watch away, the Hatter returned to the computer terminal, where the large, flat wall monitor displayed a character select screen featuring illustrations from Lewis Carroll's classic works Alice in Wonderland and Through The Looking Glass.

The Hatter smiled, his large eyes glinting as he glanced appraisingly at the motionless techs behind him. Cackling wickedly, he picked out a character for each.

The Walrus. The Duchess. Tweedledee and Tweedledum. The Queen of Hearts…

Each a little violent. Each a little cruel.

And all of them quite, quite mad…

Satisfied with his selections, he hit 'EXECUTE.'

The five mind-controlled technicians came to life as if by the wave of a magic wand.

The Hatter placed a large, green top hat over his straw-bale hair, fluffed his giant green bow tie, and grinned a bright and wicked grin.

"Welcome, welcome, my friends!" he said. "Welcome to the first night of a brave, new world! Forget the dreary, lackluster existence you thought was reality. From this time forward, wonder will rule in Gotham. Creativity will triumph over petty cash! But first…"

He grabbed his smart phone and activated a GPS phone tracker program.

"I'll show that clown… I can take over this city on my own. And I'll start…right here…"

A map appeared on the screen, a large red arrow indicating the current location of the phone he'd just tracked. The phone he knew Alice always kept in her purse.

The Luna Restaurant, on White Plains Road.

"We'll avoid the bridge and get there before dessert! Ha ha, hee hee!" the Hatter crowed to his mind-controlled minions. "Follow me!"

To Be Continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References Include: Batman The Animated Series: Mad As A Hatter; Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Chapters VI and VII, by Lewis Carroll; Batman comics.
> 
> Are you enjoying my story so far? Tell what you think! Please Review! :D


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, I'm back with a new chapter! Stay tuned for more, and don't forget to check my profile for information and updates about the free audiobook my friend and I are developing for this story! :D

A green van stopped at the corner, a short block from the Luna restaurant. The back doors opened wide, splitting the Tech Labs logo in two as one figure after another leaped out to the street.

Before long, five silhouettes stood shoulder to shoulder in the shadows between the streetlamps; five electronically controlled lab technicians armed and dressed as the storybook characters Tetch had programmed them to play.

Tetch also carried a weapon: a Taser-like gun, into which he carefully inserted the microchips his lab rats had recovered from the police station. Snatching his top hat from the van's front seat, he closed and locked the doors, tucked his pre-programmed control cards into the hat's outside ribbon, and placed the tall hat on his oversized head.

The Mad Hatter then turned to address his waiting minions.

"Remember my instructions," he commanded. "When we get to the restaurant, you may do as you please. Attack, destroy, demolish! But Alice is not to be touched. She is not to be harmed or handled in any way, even if she should stand directly in your path! Do you understand?"

The mind-controlled techs mumbled an absent acknowledgment, and the Hatter smiled.

"Excellent! Then, follow me," he said, already leading the way. His costumed followers fell into a slow, somnambulating march behind him as he sang, "The moon is shining sulkily, the puddles are wet as wet can be! Callo-Callay! That clown will pay! We're cabbages and Kings!"

*******

_Jack… Jack was running…running toward the end zone with the ball tucked under his shirt. In his dream he saw him clearly… Jack his old pal, scattering banana peels across the playing field, mining the path of any who might catch on to their scheme too soon…_

Gotham's underworld ran its operations in the half light, casting long shadows of its own. The boy had grown up in that shaded darkness…navigating the craggy depths between the cracks…

He returned there now, climbing down from Valestra's high-class lair in a tailored suit and spotless spats, his shoes polished to a mirror shine…and a bag of red ski masks in his white-gloved hand.

_Jack knew what to look for in a henchman; how to approach the angry, the disaffected… The bitter, small-time hoods dragged down by the rip tide of Gotham's corrupted justice system. Used as leverage by lawyers and cops, perpetually on the skids, these hired goons served out their lives in nickel and dime sentences, all so the big bosses could pretend like they were squeaky clean, living large on their laundered millions…_

_"It's just business," Valestra would say into his phone, a yellowed haze of cigarette smoke collecting over his mahogany desk as, with a silent gesture, he ordered another hit, another body in the river. "Business like any other…"_

_There was no thought of repercussion in anything these mob heads did, no fear of arrest or jail. They and their lawyer sidekicks had an act for every audience, a face for every crowd. Distract the eye with one hand, deceive it with the other…_

_Showman Jack knew that game. He'd lived it for over a decade, playing from the sidelines with one prize in mind. His private, driving obsession._

_Achieving Jack's perfect revenge…_

The man with the silver tooth had a name, a wife, an ex-wife, three mistresses, five kids, a pet ferret, two dogs…

And a routine.

One night, while the silver toothed man was walking home, a hood in a red ski mask pulled a burlap sack down over his head and shoulders, then shoved the aging drug dealer in the back of a van.

After a long, circuitous ride through the city and an awkward trip down some stairs, the man was pushed into a folding chair and the sack was pulled away, revealing the yellowed lighting and decaying concrete of a long-abandoned parking garage.

The cavernous space was dusty and cold as a tomb; the air stank of motor oil, of sweat and urine and worse.

The man quaked and shivered in his chair, but when he tried to stand a sharp shout rang out in the darkness. A teeming throng appeared from the shadows - snarling men with hardened faces, all dressed in solid black.

The crowd parted and a tall man in an impeccable black suit strode forward. A red helmet obscured his features, its seamless surface as smooth and polished as the rest of his ensemble. For a fleeting moment, the man with the silver tooth wondered how he could see…

Then he realized. It had to be like sunglasses, or those mirrors at police stations. The man in the hood could see out, but no one could see in.

"I…I know you," he managed, rising cautiously to his feet. "You're that Red Hood - the guy that's been pullin' all those heists lately. Wha—what do you want with me?"

"We have some unfinished business, you and I," said the man in the hood, and his snarling gang hooted their approval.

The silver toothed man paled and swallowed.

Behind the hood, Jack's green eyes hardened, and his grin grew deathly cold…

_It had started small, Jack's 'Red Hood' gag. A scheme designed to hit the mob right where it hurt the most._

_Their bank roll._

_He began with three ex-Falcone goons, recruited the night he'd returned to his old neighborhood. He'd gone to the pool halls, the corner bars, pretending to be just one in a long line of red mask-wearing vigilantes passing the torch, and the message, to the next guy. There was no need to take an oath or vow of secrecy, he'd said. Those involved were bound by their discontent, their resentment of the big bosses and the lawmen and judges sewn up in their pockets._

_Jack's anti-Falcone message struck a chord that resonated through Gotham's neglected docklands and slums. Interest in the new gang spread like a secret fight club as, dressed in rented tuxes and tails, Gotham's disaffected cast-offs put their skills to use against the mob, pulling heists in territories controlled by Gotham's infamous Five Families. From bakeries to banks, garbage disposal to real estate, chemical companies to casinos, the Red Hood Gang would hit wherever the mob had invested its dough, the seemingly random acts spreading terror and mayhem throughout the city._

_The papers latched hard to the mystery this set for a police force already overwhelmed by mob activity and violence. Before long, speculation about the Red Hood's true identity became a city-wide preoccupation._

_But, speculation was all it was. There was no established order to this gang, no clear membership or hierarchy. It operated like a game of tag, with the leader of the last heist selecting the leader of the next, who then chose his own companions. With no official members and no consistent cast, the Red Hood Gang could hit a target then dissipate like a wave against the shore, leaving no trace, no team, no membership the cops could play against each other._

_And no trail back to Valestra's 'Sonny' Jack, who remained his most trusted and reliable henchman…_

_Right up to the day he disappeared…_

Jack had let the man with the silver tooth go after his gang meted out a relatively minor beating. Some broken ribs, a few scars…

And, more importantly, a lingering terror to shadow his footsteps wherever he went.

After all, Jack's aim had not been to kill the aging creep. At least, not right away.

He wanted _watch_ the monster look over his shoulder on the street, _see_ him jump at every movement, every sound, _know_ that he was feeling the helpless, angry fears of the boy he used to be.

For the next few weeks, while his injuries healed, the silver toothed man was gaslighted at every turn, his terror rapidly blooming to full-on paranoia. He hired a bodyguard, bought a bullet-proof vest…

But, when the bandages came off, the treatment stopped completely.

A month went by, then two…

He began to reduce his bodyguard's hours - the expense of round-the-clock-protection beginning to overtake his fear of being without it. Now and then, he left the vest in a drawer, feeling a little safer in his skin…

That's when Jack decided the joke had gone on long enough.

The timing was right to deliver Jack's punchline, and really make it sing…

To Be Continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References Include - The Marx Brothers' movie "Horse Feathers"; "The Godfather"; "Fight Club"; "The Dark Knight"; Batman: The Killing Joke; The Joker: The Greatest Stories Ever Told; Batman Black and White Volume 2: Case Study; Alice's Adventures in Wonderland; Batman The Animated Series: Mad As A Hatter.
> 
> Your comments, reviews and opinions on my stories are always welcome. Please Review! :D


	13. Chapter 13

_The Red Hood gang had become a truly destabilizing force in Gotham, the chaos they spawned turning the Five Families against each other. As head boss, Falcone had grown accustomed to serving as a unifying power, skilled at smoothing over any cracks in the organization._

_But now those cracks had grown into fissures, and most of the anger was directed at him._

_Specifically, his inability to stop the Red Hood's heists._

_Then, the Red Hood hit Valestra's newest club - making a show of nailing every table and chair in the joint to the antique wooden ceiling before vanishing into the night with everything they'd found in the safe behind the wall-sized fish tank._

_Beside himself with fury, Valestra demanded Falcone take decisive action, even offering his best man, 'Sonny' Jack, to help hunt down the Red Hood and put a final end to his brazen anarchy._

_That's why Jack was there, seated at Falcone's table, when the Red Hood held up the mobster's favorite restaurant. The man in the tux and the polished red hood took Falcone's watch and wallet, then moved on to the police commissioner and a state supreme court judge, both sitting only a few tables away._

_The next day, the morning paper ranked the Red Hood as Gotham's most powerful criminal, with Falcone a lowly number two._

"See that?" Jack said, thrusting the paper in the bodyguard's face. "They ranked the Red Hood number one. Top crime boss in all of Gotham. And I know his name. Give me your ear, and I'll tell you."

The big man leaned closer.

A quick swipe of his switchblade, and Jack caught the man's severed ear with his handkerchief, holding it up as the seeping blood stained the white silk red.

Jack smiled and leaned in close to the shocked man, raising a gloved hand to his mouth as if preparing to impart a secret.

"Leave now," he whispered, "and I'll let you keep the other one."

The bodyguard stared a moment longer, then shook himself out of his stupor and began to run.

"Probably on his way to the clinic," Jack mused, and opened the restaurant door.

The man with the silver tooth looked up from his blood-rare steak as Jack slid into the seat beside him, pinning the creep between the table and the wall.

Always a little vain, but increasingly so since he'd started earning enough to invest in his wardrobe, Jack had paid extra attention to his appearance that night. From his slick brown hair to his spit-shined shoes, the young man felt confident that he looked impeccably dapper.

"It's Sonny Jack, right," the older man snarled, staring around the busy restaurant in search of his bodyguard. "Who the hell invited you?"

Jack smiled and stretched out his long legs, casually crossing one elegant white spat over the other.

"You seem to be looking for someone," he said, tossing his balled up hanky on the man's plate. "Were you expecting company?"

The man with the silver tooth frowned suspiciously and poked at the bundled ball of silk with his fork. The stained cloth fell open, revealing his bodyguard's severed ear.

The older man went pale.

Jack's smile broadened to a wicked grin, and he placed his hat down over the gory sight before it could draw attention.

"I told you once before," he said. "We have some unfinished business, you and I. Business I intend to conclude tonight."

"Wha—? What are you, some kinda nut?" the flustered man gasped. "Valestra's got no beef with me. Why would he send—"

Jack slowly shook his head, his green gaze burning into the older man's eyes.

"What? What's with that stare?" he squeaked, squirming in his chair. "It's not Valestra? Falcone?"

Jack's head kept shaking, his gaze fixed and steady.

The older man threw down his fork.

"Then, what the hell is this about!"

Jack smirked, noting with some curiosity how different the creep looked here, now, than he did in his nightmares. His leathery face was deeply lined, his greasy hair and beard peppered with gray. In the restaurant's dim light, even his silver tooth seemed worn and dull.

And he was short. Surprisingly short.

That was the strangest thing to wrap his mind around: the fact that this man, this grinning monster who had loomed over his childhood like some sinister cloud, was at least a head shorter than Jack now stood.

He had noticed these things before, down in the parking garage. But with the crowd and the darkness and that stuffy red hood distorting his vision, the details hadn't fully registered.

Now…

"That's the crime," Jack muttered grimly, and the older man swallowed.

"C-crime? I didn't—"

"I mean you," Jack snapped. "You've had all these years - all these years to live and breathe and grow old. It doesn't seem right, after what you took from me. The life you stole from Jack!"

The man blinked.

"Jack?" he repeated. "But…but, aren't you…?"

"Jack Napier?" He snorted. "Look again."

The older man shook his wrinkled head.

"I don't understand…"

"I said look again!" Jack commanded fiercely, getting right up in his face. "Can you recognize me, old man? Can you guess who I am?"

The older man babbled helplessly, cringing against his chair.

"I…I don't, I swear, I never…"

"Think back," Jack pressed. "Back to the slums you used to foul. There was a boy back then. The son of one of your meth-head mules."

The man shook his head, his bloodshot eyes a yawning blank…

Until…

"No…" he whispered, his voice and posture growing stronger as the memories returned. "No, you couldn't be! I killed that stringbean's brat myself!"

"Seems you missed your mark, old man. 'Cause I'm still here."

"You can't hurt me," the man said. "You're just a driver. Valestra's errand boy. You so much as touch me, and Falcone'll hit Valestra so hard—"

"You think they matter to me?"

Jack laughed, then slammed his fist down on the table, causing the older man to jump. Opening his palm, he revealed Falcone's stolen watch while, with his other hand, he held up the police commissioner's wallet, letting it fall open to reveal the lawman's credit cards.

When the older man continued to stare in confusion, Jack slid that morning's paper under his nose, tapping a long finger against the photo featured above the fold.

"Do you get it now?" he asked grimly. "Are you beginning to understand?"

"Oh, God… The Red Hood…"

"That's right, old man," Jack hissed in his ear. "Falcone's a dinosaur. A stooge. I pull the strings in this town now. And, no one's guessed yet that it's been Sonny Jack all along! Well…"

He smiled and snatched the steak knife from the table, running his thumb over the serrated edge.

"Except for you…"

The silver toothed man slammed his back against the wall, his eyes searching desperately for some way to escape…

"Jack… Jack, please… You of all people… You have to know it was business. Just business. Please, Jack, you can't…"

The young man shook his head, keeping his voice pitched low as he wrapped a large cloth napkin over his tailored shirt cuff and sleeve, draped the long table cloth over his trousers and shoes…

…And took the plunge…

"Uh, uh, uh," he tutted in an odd sort of sing-song, his wide green eyes seeming to glow red as he leaned over the electric candle. "Not Jack. Jack is dead. I gave Jack my jacket and you killed him and you stuffed him in a snowy dumpster. This is Jack's revenge…and he's been waiting a very long time, I've got to say."

He stabbed again, swift and forceful and surgically precise…

"But, think of it now. Consider the irony of the situation. The humor, even. You ruled your roost all those years ago. Extorted my mother to degrade herself for just a taste of that poison you peddled. You knew she'd have to do whatever you said, because you had her hooked, you see. You had all the power in the world, and no one ever dared stand up to you. Only me. Only me!"

He pulled out the knife and went for the killing blow, watching slick, bloody bubbles ooze from the older man's mouth, down his bearded chin…

"But look now! The kid you thought you threw away is back, and bigger than your boss Falcone could ever hope to be. And the kicker is, he still has no idea! Not him, not Valestra, not any of 'em. But they will. 'Cause you're gonna be my messenger.

"Or, perhaps I should say, my message…"

Knowing better than to risk the spattery mess involved in dislodging a bloody knife from a man's pumping heart, he wiped the smooth wooden handle clean, then leaned in close, staring deeply into the older man's wide and panicked eyes.

"Who has the power now, you murdering bastard," he said, then yanked the silver tooth from the older man's mouth with his gloved fingers. He rubbed it dry on the tablecloth, took aim with his thumb, and flicked the precious metal into the water glass, where it vanished among the ice cubes.

"Let's call that a hole in one. Get it?" he said, smirking at the dark cavity he'd left in the man's dying grimace. "Ah well. You'd laugh if you were still breathing. I know, I know, two punctured lungs and a ruptured aorta tend to make breathing a challenge. But really, old man, you should have thought of that before you knifed my mother."

Lifting his hat away from the severed ear on the dead man's plate, the grinning young man stood up and strode for the restaurant's door.

He was half a block away before the waitress started screaming…

To Be Continued...

Are you enjoying my story so far? Please let me know what you think! :D


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Everyone! I'm back with the second-to-last chapter of this story! I finished the script for the audio book trailer. Next up is finishing the casting process, and then we can start recording! If you're interested, I'll be posting more information here as the project develops. So, please stay tuned, and I hope you enjoy this next chapter! :D

_Screaming… The waitress was screaming…_

The man in the Joker's coat snapped open his eyes and jolted to his feet, mortified to find he'd lost track of himself for so long. That boy…no, that man, Jack…

_…Sonny Jack…_

He shivered all over, the mask he had taken from the Bat Cave moving loosely on his face. Its familiar, molded contours were an awkward fit on the the Joker's narrow features; the eyes and eye holes not quite aligned. Beneath the mask, the flesh-colored makeup he'd slathered on his chalk-pale neck and chin had become a smudged and streaky mess…

But he had no time to consider his appearance, no time to sift through the memories and separate his dream from reality.

Something was happening in the restaurant across the street. He caught flashes of movement behind the glass…muffled yells…

A chair shattered the window's reflective glass. Inside, he saw a woman dressed as the Queen of Hearts striding past upturned tables with an ax clutched in her hands. Diners were screaming, scrambling over splintered furniture and broken glass, searching for any cover they could find…

He felt woozy, bleary, but he couldn't just stand by. Throwing off his rain-soaked hat and coat, he straightened his mask and made the charge…

*******

The man in Bruce Wayne's suit tilted his head back and laughed out loud.

Crouched low behind the bar, huddled with at least a dozen other terrified diners, Alice shivered and rubbed her arms, chilled - not so much by the surreal scene - but by the way 'Bruce' seemed to expand and brighten as he drank in the chaos, the wanton destruction all around them…

"Wonderful, Hatty! Just wonderful!" he cheered, picking his way past a fallen light fixture to slap the Hatter on the back. "Don't tell me you went to the trouble of brainwashing these storybook stooges just to strike back at me!"

"This isn't about you," the Hatter snarled through his teeth, raising his Taser-gun and pointing it at the taller man's broad chest. "I'm going to give Gotham the reality it deserves! And I will do it on my own! Now stand back, clown, and do as I say, or—"

"Jervis?"

Alice stood hesitantly, dodging with a little shriek as the Walrus hurled an oyster knife at her head.

The Mad Hatter roared in fury.

"No, no, what did I tell you!" he snapped. "Alice is not to be harmed!"

The Walrus lumbered away, rejoining the Duchess and the Tweedles in their pepper and plate-tossing battle. The Queen of Hearts hacked at the wall, chopping posters and framed photographs to fragments with her shining ax.

Alice brought her hands to her face, her wide blue eyes filling with horror as she turned her gaze from the costumed vandals to the snarling man in the green top hat.

"Oh… Oh, it is you…" she gasped. "But… Why, Jervis? Tell me why you're doing this!"

"Dear Alice… How I wish that you could understand," Tetch sighed. "But I'm afraid I can't explain myself. Because I am not myself, you see?"

"No," Alice said, tears streaming down her cheeks as she stared at the destruction all around them. "No, I don't see. All I see here is madness. All of you - you're all crazy!"

"I'm afraid so," the man in Bruce Wayne's suit recited, gleefully taking the opening. "But, let me tell you something, the best people usually are."

The Mad Hatter glared in fury, his face reddening right up to his ears.

"You—! You—!" he sputtered. "How _dare_ you quote Lewis Carroll!"

The taller man's laughter only stoked the Hatter's rising anger.

"Hatty, my dear chapeau. You may have a talent for science. But when it comes to originality—"

A tall figure leaped through the broken window into the restaurant's ruins, his dark cape billowing.

"Batman!" a few of the diners cried from their hiding places.

"Is it really…!"

"He looks different in the papers…"

The Mad Hatter rushed forward, waving his arms.

"Attack!" he shouted to his minions. "Attack him! NOW!"

The costumed henchmen turned as one, armed with knives, an ax, broken bottles, but the Batman moved in swinging.

With a powerful punch to the jaw, he knocked the lumbering Walrus into the Duchess, then spun to take on the Tweedles. The pair slammed against the ax-chewed wall, and a thin white card, about the size of a playing card, fell from the metal band under the Duchess's wig.

The woman went stock-still, her eyes glazed and blank. The Walrus groaned and pulled off the heavy, tusked head of his costume - only to yelp and duck to avoid a flying Tweedledee. His metal band rolled out of the Walrus's head and twirled to a stop on the floor.

"What—where am I?" he cried. "What the hell is going on!"

Alice crawled out to guide the baffled lab tech behind the bar with the rest of the frightened diners, keeping one eye on the Batman as he knocked Tweedledum into a broken table, then landed a round house kick that sank the Queen's upraised ax deep into the wall behind her.

The Queen pulled and yanked, using all her strength to get it out, but the Batman lifted her wig and plucked the white card out of the metal head band.

Freed of the mind controlling device, the disoriented lab tech lowered her arms and stared in bewilderment at the ruins all around her.

Far in the distance, the wail of police sirens pierced the rainy night, growing gradually louder.

"No, no!" the Mad Hatter howled. "Who did this! Who dared call the police!"

"I did," Alice said, holding up her phone. "I don't know what's happened, Jervis, but this has to stop. Our technology was never meant to hurt people!"

The Hatter gaped at her, his expression torn between pining frustration and explosive rage. He raised his hands, his fingers like claws as he reached toward her—

And was slammed to the floor in a rolling tackle.

"Ow! What! No - get off me!" he shrieked, kicking and squirming away from the Batman's grip. "What gives you the right to interfere with my plans! Why, you're not even the real Batman!"

"Looks real enough to me," 'Bruce' commented, tiptoeing toward them around the splintered wood and shattered glass to avoid scuffing his expensive shoes. "Oh, hoo! This is better than I could have planned! The big bad Batman, swooping in just in time to snatch the day from the mad, Mad Hatter! Let's hear it for 'im kids! Hip hip!"

He cupped a dramatic hand to his ear, waiting for a response.

"Hooray…?" a few of the rattled diners managed.

The Batman swayed on his feet, looking at least as unfocused and disoriented as the lab techs he'd been fighting.

The man in Bruce Wayne's shoes snickered wickedly, and raised his hands to the Batman's ill-fitting mask.

"Now…" he said. "Let's all see what he's got under the hood…"

"Hood," the masked man muttered, as if speaking through a dream. "Red Hood… Sonny Jack…"

Wayne's grin faded, and he stared through the mask, seeking out the man's jade green eyes.

"What did you say?" he demanded, grabbing him by the shoulders.

"Hands up, clown," the Mad Hatter said, his Taser-gun clutched in both hands. The police sirens were getting louder, intensifying the madness in his eyes.

"You think you used my microchips to imprint your twisted thoughts on Gotham's wealthiest playboy, but it's only an illusion," he said. "The program I gave you equates to a full immersion video game - a false reality designed to temporarily overwrite the thoughts and memories of each player! Your little game was never meant to last. And now, I will end it - once and for all!"

"Wait," 'Wayne' said, "what do you—"

The Mad Hatter pulled the trigger, enfolding both Wayne and the Joker in a blinding web of crackling energy.

Alice, the techs and the diners all screamed and shielded their eyes, but the Mad Hatter kept his aim steady, his grin cruelly twisted as he watched the two men writhe within his sparking web.

He only released the trigger when a team of cops swarmed the building. A pair of them took the Hatter by the arms, three more ran to the aid of the terrified diners behind the bar.

Upon hearing the sirens, the cop voices and radios, shaken diners and restaurant staff began shuffling into the main dining room from every direction - the restrooms, the kitchen, the manager's office…even the fenced-in alley where the staffers went to text or smoke.

"Batman was here," they told the cops, the paramedics, anyone who would listen. "Batman and Bruce Wayne. That madman in the hat shot them both with some kind of laser gun!"

The cops searched the wreckage top to bottom, moving broken tables and fallen debris…

But, if the Batman had been there, the cops never found a trace. Both he and Wayne had vanished…

To Be Concluded...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time: THE CONCLUSION! Stay Tuned to find out how all this madness gets resolved! :)
> 
> References Include - Batman: The Killing Joke; Batman The Animated Series: Mad As A Hatter and Perchance To Dream; Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through The Looking Glass.
> 
> Please Review! :D


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now... THE CONCLUSION! :D

It was well past midnight, but yellow lamplight still burned in an upper window of the Thomas Wayne Memorial Free Clinic.

Creaky Venetian blinds clattered and flapped; the night wind rustled through the stacks of hand-scribbled notebooks and medical files piled on the office desk. A flicker of movement…a shifting shadow in the corner…

And, Dr. Leslie Thompkins knew she was no longer alone in the room.

Closing her laptop, the aging doctor pushed her glasses up her nose and turned her wry smile toward the shaded bookcase.

“So,” she said. “You decided to show up after all.”

“Thank you for waiting,” a low voice replied.

She waved his words away and leaned back in her chair.

“I hear there’s a new mugshot in your Gallery of Rogues,” she said, keeping her voice light. “The Mad Hatter himself. From what I’ve read in the papers, his capture was no tea party.”

The grim shadow did not respond.

Leslie sighed and scooted her chair forward.

“But, the Mad Hatter is not the reason you came to see me,” she prompted, her bright eyes focused, not on the mask she saw, but the pain and confusion she knew it was hiding. “It’s those microchips he developed. You’re worried your exposure to Tetch’s immersive program might have lingering effects.”

“It was more than a program,” the Batman told her, his caped shadow sinking down into the chair across from hers. “Much more. He was in my mind, Leslie. The Joker. His thoughts, his twisted ambitions… While under the influence of those chips, I honestly thought… That is, I believed…”

“That you were the Joker,” Leslie stated the words bluntly. “Operating in the body of Bruce Wayne.”

The Batman grunted. 

“I wish I could say it was like a dream,” he said. “But it wasn’t. I was fully aware of everything I did, everything I said…”

“And, don’t tell me,” Leslie said. “Some part of you enjoyed it. That’s really what brought you here, isn’t it. It was liberating having the chance to live as someone else for a while - to shed the responsibility of this guardian role you have allowed to rule your life for so long. I can’t say I blame you for that. You deserve a chance to step away from the Batman persona now and then. It’s just a shame that ‘someone else’ had to be a psychopathic killer like the Joker…and not Bruce Wayne.”

The Batman shook his head.

“Joker may be insane,” he said quietly. “But, he enjoys the game. He finds purpose in the chaos he creates, and basks in the notoriety. His energy is like an uncontained fire…attracting…mesmerizing those it destroys. Like a flame, he lights up any room he enters. While I…”

He pulled away from her, further into the shadows.

“I remain alone. In the dark…”

“Bruce—”

“There’s something wrong with me, Leslie,” he said. “Something missing. This has nothing to do with the Joker, or those chips. It’s just me…who I am. I’m cold…inside. And that coldness drives others away…”

“Nonsense,” Leslie scoffed, and sighed through her nose. “Dear Bruce… You do remind me so much of your father.”

The masked man looked up and she smiled, just slightly.

“Thomas Wayne was possessed of one of the biggest, most caring hearts I have ever come across,” she said. “Yet, when we were at medical school together, he constantly doubted himself. He looked around at the other students cramming for exams, scribbling out last minute reports, and he would question his own dedication, his motivation, his capacity for compassion. He never allowed himself a break, and if he did step away from his work, even for a few hours, he loaded up on guilt about it for weeks afterward.”

She leaned closer, reaching for his gloved hand across the desk.

“There is nothing wrong with you, Bruce,” she said. “Only that same big, caring heart that drives you, just as it drove Thomas. I know this because I’ve known you and cared for you all your life. You carry a great deal of pain, Bruce. So much anger… But anger, like fire, can be a constructive force. And that’s the kind of flame that burns in you. It’s your compassion that keeps you fighting, not your rage. That’s what separates you from the monsters you put away…and what keeps the rest of us believing that fiends like the Joker and the Mad Hatter can, and will, be stopped.”

The Batman held her gaze for a long, solemn moment. Then, he released her hand and gracefully rose to his feet.

“I have to go,” he said, moving to stand by the window, grapple gun already by his side.

“I understand,” she told him. “And remember Bruce…”

He had already gone, vanished into the shaded dimness between the streetlights below. But, she finished the thought just the same.

“I’m proud of you.”

*******

The light fixtures at Arkham Asylum seemed designed to emphasize shadows rather than emit light. Gray cinder block halls echoed with sobs, howls, demented laughter…

But, one inmate was ominously silent.

“He hasn’t eaten. I don’t think he sleeps,” the doctor said, her dark features drawn as she peered down at her clipboard. “It’s been days since the Batman brought him in, and no one’s been able to reach him.”

“So you thought of me,” said the doctor’s companion. She held out a hand for the clipboard, straightening her glasses as she flipped through the pages.

“Phew,” she said, “your handwriting’s even worse than mine.”

The doctor pursed her lips in what might have been a smile, but kept her posture calm and professional.

“This is the part that most concerns me.” She pointed to a particularly dense section of scribbles. “Now, granted, he hasn’t spoken much since his arrival. But last night, the guards overheard him mumbling and they called me in. It sounded like he was talking about his mother.”

“His mother?”

“Usually, when he speaks of his childhood, his mother rarely appears in the story. More often, he deflects analysis by evoking the character of the abusive father.”

Her companion snorted.

“Oh, yes. I’ve heard that one,” she said. “Several versions, in fact. But, what’s this here? Does this say ‘microchips’?”

The doctor leaned closer to squint at her notes.

“That’s right,” she confirmed. “It’s something Batman himself mentioned when he brought him in this time. I’m not too clear on the details - as I said, our friend’s been all but impossible to reach since he’s been back here. But, apparently, he and our newest inmate, Jervis Tetch, had arranged a sort of partnership, the aim being to use these experimental microchips to hack into or sabotage some kind of popular virtual reality headset. People using the affected sets would end up trapped in a false reality determined by their own thoughts and imaginations, thus sending the city into the chaos of fear and panic. The usual drill for these megalomaniacal types. According to Batman’s brief statement, which I have right here…”

She flipped to the end of the clipboard notes to point out a neatly typed form.

“This plan was derailed by a warehouse accident, culminating in a showdown at some formerly mob-owned restaurant. The chips were destroyed, Tetch was hauled in by the police, and Batman once again delivered the Joker to our doorstep.”

Her companion’s pale eyes widened behind her glasses, but she forced herself to nod.

“I see,” she said, her teeth clenched behind her smile. “Well, I think I’m ready to go in. Can I assume that you’ll be watching?”

“We’ve got him on 24/7 surveillance. The entire exchange will be recorded.”

The woman snorted.

“And you wonder why you can’t get the inmates to open up in this place.”

“It’s for your own protection,” the doctor said. “As well as his.”

“Yeah, right, whatever,” her companion said. “Let’s go.”

The doctor’s heels clacked against gray cement as she led the way past the subbasement cells toward the maximum security ward. As they reached the electromagnetically sealed door, an array of red laser lights swept over her and a light on the wall turned green. The electronic hum died, and the two women walked through the sliding door into a shielded observation station where five guards busily manned their consoles.

The doctor’s companion set her glasses down on the top of the control console while one of the guards passed a hand held metal detector over the two of them. Another bioscan, another unsealed door, and the doctor led the way down a flight of stairs to a visibly high tech metallic corridor.

After a few dozen feet, she stopped and gestured toward a colorless padded cell, about the size of a walk-in closet. A metal sink and toilet crowded the far right corner; a cot had been bolted to the wall. No pictures or personal items were allowed inside the cell, no glass or electronics, nothing that could be considered ‘dangerous.’ No pillow or pillowcase, no sheets, no shoelaces… No books or magazines. No toothbrush…

The cell’s occupant lay on the cot in an ill-fitting jumpsuit, facing away from the double layer of thick, shatterproof plastic at the front of his cell. His chalk-pale feet were crossed at the ankle and his folded hands took the place of a pillow.

The doctor rapped her fist against the outer plastic wall.

The inmate didn’t move, so she knocked louder.

“Come on, look alive,” she called. “You have a visitor.”

Slowly, slowly, the inmate lifted his narrow chin, pressing his head back until his jade green eyes blinked upside down at his guests.

“Oh,” he said, his voice sounding oddly tinny through the speaker system. “It’s you.”

“I’ll be watching from the observation station,” the doctor said, giving her companion’s shoulder a supportive squeeze. “You know the signal when you’re ready to leave.”

The Joker smiled an upside-down smile, then flipped onto his stomach, resting his chin on his hand and waving his crossed legs behind him like a teenager at a slumber party. The LED lamps in the high, glowing ceiling made his bleach-white skin seem ghostly, and even his bright green hair looked washed out and pale.

His visitor crossed her arms and shook her head, her blonde pigtails brushing the shoulders of her gray inmate jumpsuit.

“You look like crap,” she said.

“Harley. A pleasure to see you too, my dear,” he said, and slowly sat up. “And, to what do I owe this moment of joy? Another raid at the Ha Hacienda?”

“Hardly,” Harley scoffed. “When I heard you’d been snagged again, I signed myself in. It’s why they let me down here. There’s no court ordered separation this time!”

“Just my luck,” the Joker grunted, and lay back down. “Go away.”

“If you say, Mistah J,” she said tauntingly. “But, I know what’s up. You had a Bat in the brain!”

“What are you—”

“Those microchips of Hatty’s - they backfired on you, didn’t they. That’s why you came home all in a tizzy, and then dressed up like Batman.”

He snarled and turned to the wall.

Harley’s cruel smile grew.

“No - I get it now. You weren’t just dressed up like Batman. Those chips had you thinkin’ you actually were that cape-wearin’ creep!”

“Shut up,” he growled.

Harley laughed.

“That’s it, isn’t it! Ha ha! I guess that explains this mood you’ve been in,” she taunted. “All that dark brooding must be contagious!”

“Shut up, Harley,” he warned, his eyes as hard as jade.

“Why? There’s nothin’ you can do to me while you’re in there. Besides, I might be able to help! I used to be a certified shrink, you know. Right in this very ward.”

“So what? What do you want to hear?” he snapped, getting up to stalk the perimeter of his small cell. “The plan was a flop! I’ll put on a better show next time.”

“I know you will, puddin’,” she said.

“How many times do I have to tell you,” he cried. “Don’t call me ‘puddin’’!”

“There, there, puddin’,” Harley teased, slinking closer to the cell. “Why don’t you tell your Harley all about it.”

The Joker grimaced in fury, seeming to expand where he stood. Then, he sighed deeply and sank back onto the cot, burying his face in his hands.

“What’s to tell?” he said. “I mean, I always knew that masked madman harbored a certain obsession with me. But, until now, I don’t think I truly appreciated how deeply the knowledge that he is out there right now, breathing, sticks in my craw!”

He scowled at his chalk-white hands and clenched his fists.

“Batman,” the Joker spat. “He’s responsible for all of this! He stole my anonymity when he dropped me in that chemical vat. Forced me to steal the spotlight.”

“Supplied you with the perfect excuse to wind up here in the loony bin, instead of wasting your whole life in prison or on death row, like so many of your old pals,” Harley pointed out.

The Joker bared his yellowed teeth in a terrible snarl, and she actually took a few steps back.

He kept her fixed in his glare for a few tense moments, then turned his gaze to the ceiling, taking up a musing posture.

“We talked for a while, you know,” he said. “Before he dragged me back here. I’ll tell you what I told him...”

*******

“I think I had a dream. Or, perhaps I was reminiscing,” the Joker said, the restaurant and police sirens already a distant memory as the Batmobile sped through the city, the Joker’s wrists bound and chained to the passenger seat. He suspected he must have been unconscious, because he’d woken from a jumble of nightmarish images with Batman beside him and the souped-up car already speeding through the streets.

“It was about the night we first met,” he went on. “I saw you and me…the catwalk over the factory floor…the open vat of chemicals churning below our feet…”

“I remember,” Batman growled, images from that distant night playing out behind his eyes like faded film in an old-style projector…

_They were after the payroll. Three, maybe four men dressed in suits and ties. There was shooting - bright flashes in the dark, shouts of pain and fear…_

_He remembered swinging over their heads, his cape spreading like the wings of a giant bat, honing in on the one who seemed to be the leader… This man was tall and slender, his long face draped in shadow…_

_Or, could it have been a mask?_

_The man ran first and he gave chase, their footsteps clanging on the suspended walkway._

_He remembered sirens, the loud battering blows as the cops forced their way through the metal doors…_

_And then, the man was flailing, falling over the rail… He grabbed for his hand, but the man was out of reach, plummeting into the churning vat…_

_Had the man’s fingers slipped through his glove? Did he glimpse the man’s face in the dark…see the terror in his eyes…?_

_Or had time and recurrent nightmares distorted his recollection of the past…?_

“Human memory is so fickle, don’t you think,” the Joker said as he watched the Batman clench his jaw. “Why, just take the two of us! I know we both were there that night, but I’m willing to bet your version of events would be quite different from mine. And, my recollection changes all the time! Sometimes, I remember things one way. Sometimes, I remember them another. But always, it turns out like this. You in that mask, me with this face...”

“I’m not going to play these games with you,” the Batman snapped.

“No, you never were one for games,” the Joker taunted. “You’re here for the story. You want to know how this story ends. Me, driving you over the edge… You, taking that fall from grace…”

He broke into laughter and Batman turned away with a disgusted grunt.

“Those chips really were a marvel, weren’t they, Batsy,” the Joker said, still snickering. “They showed us both that, while I may have bats in my belfry, you’ve got a clown in your attic!”

“What do you mean?”

“It really eats away at you, doesn’t it, Bats,” he spat, “your memory of that night at the chemical plant. I know now how you sit alone in your dank, dark cave, wondering what kind of person I might have been if we’d never had our fateful encounter. How I might have spent my childhood, what could have brought me to that place where our paths first crossed… You fret and you worry, asking yourself if it’s your fault that I am the way I am.”

He laughed, his green eyes growing a little wild.

“The thing is, I go back there too sometimes,” he said. “Now as Joe, now as Jack or Sonny or Hap. It really doesn’t matter. Sometimes, when I go back, I wear a shiny red hood. Sometimes, I don’t. Sometimes I’m leader of a gang. Other times, I play the unfortunate dupe - a small time showman desperate for cash. I’ve got a tailored act for every audience! But, whichever story gets me there, it’s always a means to an end.”

He smiled, staring out the window at the passing streetlights.

“Truth is, I don’t see much point in remembering my younger days,” he admitted. “Who we are is always changing, from month to month and year to year. No mask can halt the march of time. As for myself, I’ve always said, if I must have a past, I prefer it to be multiple choice.”

He glanced at Batman, waiting for some kind of response. When he didn’t get one, he kept talking.

“Still, it was interesting to catch a glimpse of the scenario that microchip-imprinted copy of your mind cooked up for me. The drug mule mother killed by some silver toothed dealer. That poor lost boy tossed out with the trash. Honestly, Bats, I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.”

He smirked and leaned back in the seat.

“That’s not to say I haven’t concocted a few scenarios of my own. Have I told you the one about my father? So violent, so disapproving. That’s the one that hooked Harley. Or, how about the one about my mother’s suicide? Realized one day my dear old dad was never coming back from sea, and she swallowed a bottle of pills while I was at school.”

He paused and rubbed his chin.

“Wait, maybe that was in a movie…”

“Stop talking,” the Batman growled. “I don’t want to hear anymore.”

“Ha!” the Joker barked. “So, you were listening.”

Batman clenched his teeth.

“If you must talk,” he rumbled, “tell me this. What made you dive through that restaurant window? Why did you attack the Hatter’s goons?”

The Joker regarded him.

“You mean, that really happened?” he asked, staring with renewed curiosity at the small glass cuts on his hands and arms.

“Are you saying you don’t remember?”

“Honestly, Batman, it’s a blur. I remember the explosion at the old warehouse. But after that it’s all in bits and pieces, like some fragmented dream. There was a boy named Jack. And Bruce Wayne… That’s right…”

He chuckled.

“He was there at the restaurant, showing a sense of humor for once. And you…”

He frowned in confusion.

“Where were you? Or was I supposed to be you?”

“All right, stop,” Batman said. “I’ve heard enough.”

“Oh, you’ve heard enough.”

The Joker snorted a laugh.

“You know your problem, Bats?”

“Right now?” Batman turned to face him. “I’d say it was the clown in my passenger seat.”

The Joker quirked a green eyebrow.

“Ha. Very funny. Don’t quit your night job. But, seriously. You’re a control freak.”

Batman sighed and increased their speed.

“I mean it. You’re obsessed with order. But the world isn’t like that. It’s random, chaotic. You may think the past can be set in stone, but memory is fallible. Eyewitnesses almost always lie. That leaves everyone’s history open to interpretation. Even yours. And it makes you crazy, doesn’t it. It makes you absolutely bonkers! Why else would a man like you dress up like a bat to chase a man like me? Eh? Tell me that!”

“Memories may fade, but facts are facts,” Batman rumbled. “And the fact is, past events cannot be changed. Our past drives our present.”

The Joker snickered and rolled his eyes.

“Your past may drive you, but not me,” he said. “No, no, harping on what’s past will only bring you down.”

He laughed out loud, his chains rattling as he slapped his thigh.

“You know,” he said, “this reminds me of a joke! Stop me if you’ve heard this one. But there were three guys working at a construction site. They were building a bridge. Every day the three men got up early, packed their lunch boxes, then headed out to the construction site where they worked and worked until the lunch bell rang and they all met up at the edge of the unfinished bridge to eat their sandwiches.

“Now, the first guy, he opens his lunch box, unwraps his sandwich, and moans.

“‘Aw,’ he says. ‘Peanut butter and jelly! I hate peanut butter and jelly!’

“The second guy does the same, opening his lunch box, unwrapping his sandwich, and moaning in disappointment.

“‘Aw!’ he says. ‘Peanut butter and jelly! I hate peanut butter and jelly!’

“And, so it goes with the third guy, who likewise opens his lunch box, unwraps his sandwich, and moans: ‘Aw, peanut butter and jelly! I can’t stand this stuff!’

“So, the next day comes, and the three men meet for lunch as before. But, this time, when the first guy opens his sandwich, he cries, ‘Aw, peanut butter and jelly! That’s twice in a row! If I get peanut butter and jelly again tomorrow, I’m going to jump off this bridge!’

“The second man pledged to do the same and the third guy, who wasn’t exactly the ripest berry in the berry patch, echoed his two friends.

“Now, on the third day, when the three men met for lunch, they all seemed a little nervous. When the first guy unwrapped his sandwich, he actually held his breath while he peeled open the bread to peer inside.

“‘Thank goodness!’ he cried in relief. ‘I have tuna salad!’

“‘I have ham and cheese!’ the second man cheered.

“‘Aw, peanut butter and jelly!’ the third guy moaned, and he jumped off the bridge.

“Some time later, after the bridge was completed, the two remaining men were looking over the railing at the water far below and thinking about their friend.

“‘Do you ever feel sorry for him?’ the second guy asked the first.

“‘Nah,” the first guy replied. ‘He made his own lunch.’”

He paused for a beat, then glanced over at Batman.

Batman glanced back at him and, for a fleeting moment, their eyes met.

“Hm,” the Batman snorted, his broad shoulders seeming to twitch beneath his cape. “Hm hmph.”

Joker’s wicked smile broadened, his own chuckles growing until suddenly, they both were laughing - a shared laughter that only increased as they left the outskirts of the city, and the grim gates of Arkham Asylum came into view.

“Hm heh. Ha. _Ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha!_ ”

*******

“I guess we all make our own lunch, don’t we Mistah J,” Harley said, still recovering from her own bout of laughter.

“Well, not as long as we’re stuck in here,” the Joker returned. “I wouldn’t feed the slop this dump churns out to the hyenas.”

“Good thing we won’t be stayin’ long, then,” Harley said slyly.

The Joker frowned.

“What do you…”

She nodded toward the observation station and made a small gesture, as if sliding an invisible pair of glasses up her nose.

His pale features brightened like a lamp and she grinned, holding her fingers out by her side in a silent countdown.

_Four…three…two…_

The explosion took out the control console, scattering the guards and shorting the power to the electromagnetically sealed doors. The Joker’s cell slid open, and he stepped, grinning, into the smoky hallway.

“Ha ha!” he crowed, spreading his arms wide. “The old exploding glasses on the console trick! Baby, you’re the greatest!”

“You better believe it, puddin’,” Harley said, and hopped into the Joker’s arms with a happy little squeak.

*******

High above and somewhere to the right, the Mad Hatter sat alone in his padded cell. His tall hat and costume had been confiscated, his cards and weapons boxed up and inventoried. Yet, for all the probes, scans, and searches he’d been subjected to throughout the booking process, the Gotham cops and Arkham doctors had failed to notice the tiny microchip he’d managed to slip beneath the bandage on his temple. 

When the building shook and the electronic door locks clicked open, his fellow inmates quickly took advantage, adding to the chaos of the Joker’s escape.

But, the Hatter remained where he was: mouth open, eyes glazed, and mind lost to his own private Wonderland…

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References Include - Batman: The Killing Joke; Batman: The Animated Series; An Officer And A Gentleman; Get Smart; The Honeymooners. The sandwich joke was paraphrased from a joke my cousin told me a long time ago.
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> Well, that's the end of this story! Please let me know what you think. Your reviews are always welcome! :D
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> P.S. Don't forget - we're aiming to have the trailer for the free audio book version of this story (with real actors - and me! - providing the voices) ready to post in a few months. Stay tuned! :D


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